The Project Gutenberg EBook of Ten Years Later, by Alexandre Dumas, Pere
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Title: Ten Years Later
Author: Alexandre Dumas, Pere
Release Date: August 12, 2008 [EBook #2681]
Last Updated: November 21, 2016
Language: English
Character set encoding: UTF-8
*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK TEN YEARS LATER ***
Produced by John Bursey, and David Widger

TEN YEARS LATER

(1660-1661, Chapters 76-140 of the Third Volume of the D’Artagnan series)

[Project Gutenberg Etext 1258 listed below, is of the same
title as etext 2681 and its contents overlap those of two
other volumes: it includes all the chapters of etext 2609
and the first 28 chapters of 2681]
Ten Years Later 1258 1660-1661 3 1-104

Transcriber’s Notes:

As you may be aware, Project Gutenberg has been involved with the
writings of both the Alexandre Dumases for some time now, and since we
get a few questions about the order in which the books should be read,
and in which they were published, these following comments should
hopefully help most of our readers.

The Vicomte de Bragelonne is the final volume of D’Artagnan Romances: it
is usually split into three or four parts, and the final portion is
entitled The Man in the Iron Mask. The Man in the Iron Mask we’re
familiar with today is the last volume of the four-volume edition. [Not
all the editions split them in the same manner, hence some of the
confusion...but wait...there’s yet more reason for confusion.]

We intend to do ALL of The Vicomte de Bragelonne, split into four etexts
entitled The Vicomte de Bragelonne, Ten Years Later, Louise de la
Valliere, and The Man in the Iron Mask; you WILL be getting The Man in
the Iron Mask.

One thing that may be causing confusion is that the etext we have now,
entitled Ten Years Later, says it’s the sequel to The Three Musketeers.
While this is technically true, there’s another book, Twenty Years
After, that comes between. The confusion is generated by the two facts
that we published Ten Years Later BEFORE we published Twenty Years
After, and that many people see those titles as meaning Ten and Twenty
Years “After” the original story...however, this is why the different
words “After” and “Later”...the Ten Years “After” is ten years after the
Twenty Years later...as per history. Also, the third book of the
D’Artagnan Romances, while entitled The Vicomte de Bragelonne, has the
subtitle Ten Years Later. These two titles are also given to different
volumes: The Vicomte de Bragelonne can refer to the whole book, or the
first volume of the three or four-volume editions. Ten Years Later can,
similarly, refer to the whole book, or the second volume of the
four-volume edition. To add to the confusion, in the case of our etexts,
it refers to the first 104 chapters of the whole book, covering material
in the first and second etexts in the new series. Here is a guide to the
series which may prove helpful:

The Three Musketeers: Etext 1257—First book of the D’Artagnan
Romances. Covers the years 1625-1628.

Twenty Years After: Etext 1259—Second book of the D’Artagnan
Romances. Covers the years 1648-1649. [Third in the order that we
published, but second in time sequence!!!]

Ten Years Later: Etext 1258—First 104 chapters of the third book
of the D’Artagnan Romances. Covers the years 1660-1661.

The Vicomte de Bragelonne: Etext 2609 (first in the new series)—First
75 chapters of the third book of the D’Artagnan Romances. Covers the
year 1660.

Ten Years Later: Etext 2681 (our new etext)—Chapters 76-140 of
that third book of the D’Artagnan Romances. Covers the years 1660-1661.
[In this particular editing of it]

Louise de la Valliere: forthcoming (our next etext)—Chapters
141-208 of the third book of the D’Artagnan Romances. Covers the year
1661.

The Man in the Iron Mask: forthcoming (following)—Chapters 209-269
of the third book of the D’Artagnan Romances. Covers the years
1661-1673.

If we’ve calculated correctly, that fourth text SHOULD correspond to the
modern editions of The Man in the Iron Mask, which is still widely
circulated, and comprises about the last 1/4 of The Vicomte de
Bragelonne.

Here is a list of the other Dumas Etexts we have published so far:

Sep 1999 La Tulipe Noire, by Alexandre
Dumas[Pere#6/French][tlpnrxxx.xxx]1910 This is an abridged edition in
French, also see our full length English Etext Jul 1997 The Black Tulip,
by Alexandre Dumas[Pere][Dumas#1][tbtlpxxx.xxx] 965 Jan 1998 The Count
of Monte Cristo by Alexandre Dumas[Pere][crstoxxx.xxx]1184

Many thanks to Dr. David Coward, whose editions of the D’Artagnan
Romances have proved an invaluable source of information.

Introduction:

In the months of March-July in 1844, in the magazine Le Siecle, the
first portion of a story appeared, penned by the celebrated playwright
Alexandre Dumas. It was based, he claimed, on some manuscripts he had
found a year earlier in the Bibliotheque Nationale while researching a
history he planned to write on Louis XIV. They chronicled the adventures
of a young man named D’Artagnan who, upon entering Paris, became almost
immediately embroiled in court intrigues, international politics, and
ill-fated affairs between royal lovers. Over the next six years, readers
would enjoy the adventures of this youth and his three famous friends,
Porthos, Athos, and Aramis, as their exploits unraveled behind the
scenes of some of the most momentous events in French and even English
history.

Eventually these serialized adventures were published in novel form, and
became the three D’Artagnan Romances known today. Here is a brief
summary of the first two novels:

The Three Musketeers (serialized March-July, 1844): The year is 1625.
The young D’Artagnan arrives in Paris at the tender age of 18, and
almost immediately offends three musketeers, Porthos, Aramis, and Athos.
Instead of dueling, the four are attacked by five of the Cardinal’s
guards, and the courage of the youth is made apparent during the battle.
The four become fast friends, and, when asked by D’Artagnan’s landlord
to find his missing wife, embark upon an adventure that takes them
across both France and England in order to thwart the plans of the
Cardinal Richelieu. Along the way, they encounter a beautiful young spy,
named simply Milady, who will stop at nothing to disgrace Queen Anne of
Austria before her husband, Louis XIII, and take her revenge upon the
four friends.

Twenty Years After (serialized January-August, 1845): The year is now
1648, twenty years since the close of the last story. Louis XIII has
died, as has Cardinal Richelieu, and while the crown of France may sit
upon the head of Anne of Austria as Regent for the young Louis XIV, the
real power resides with the Cardinal Mazarin, her secret husband.
D’Artagnan is now a lieutenant of musketeers, and his three friends have
retired to private life. Athos turned out to be a nobleman, the Comte de
la Fere, and has retired to his home with his son, Raoul de Bragelonne.
Aramis, whose real name is D’Herblay, has followed his intention of
shedding the musketeer’s cassock for the priest’s robes, and Porthos has
married a wealthy woman, who left him her fortune upon her death. But
trouble is stirring in both France and England. Cromwell menaces the
institution of royalty itself while marching against Charles I, and at
home the Fronde is threatening to tear France apart. D’Artagnan brings
his friends out of retirement to save the threatened English monarch,
but Mordaunt, the son of Milady, who seeks to avenge his mother’s death
at the musketeers’ hands, thwarts their valiant efforts. Undaunted, our
heroes return to France just in time to help save the young Louis XIV,
quiet the Fronde, and tweak the nose of Cardinal Mazarin.

The third novel, The Vicomte de Bragelonne (serialized October, 1847
—January, 1850), has enjoyed a strange history in its English
translation. It has been split into three, four, or five volumes at
various points in its history. The five-volume edition generally does
not give titles to the smaller portions, but the others do. In the
three-volume edition, the novels are entitled The Vicomte de Bragelonne,
Louise de la Valliere, and The Man in the Iron Mask. For the purposes of
this etext, I have chosen to split the novel as the four-volume edition
does, with these titles: The Vicomte de Bragelonne, Ten Years Later,
Louise de la Valliere, and The Man in the Iron Mask. In the last etext:

The Vicomte de Bragelonne (Etext 2609): It is the year 1660, and
D’Artagnan, after thirty-five years of loyal service, has become
disgusted with serving King Louis XIV while the real power resides with
the Cardinal Mazarin, and has tendered his resignation. He embarks on
his own project, that of restoring Charles II to the throne of England,
and, with the help of Athos, succeeds, earning himself quite a fortune
in the process. D’Artagnan returns to Paris to live the life of a rich
citizen, and Athos, after negotiating the marriage of Philip, the king’s
brother, to Princess Henrietta of England, likewise retires to his own
estate, La Fere. Meanwhile, Mazarin has finally died, and left Louis to
assume the reigns of power, with the assistance of M. Colbert, formerly
Mazarin’s trusted clerk. Colbert has an intense hatred for M. Fouquet,
the king’s superintendent of finances, and has resolved to use any means
necessary to bring about his fall. With the new rank of intendant
bestowed on him by Louis, Colbert succeeds in having two of Fouquet’s
loyal friends tried and executed. He then brings to the king’s attention
that Fouquet is fortifying the island of Belle-Ile-en-Mer, and could
possibly be planning to use it as a base for some military operation
against the king. Louis calls D’Artagnan out of retirement and sends him
to investigate the island, promising him a tremendous salary and his
long-promised promotion to captain of the musketeers upon his return. At
Belle-Isle, D’Artagnan discovers that the engineer of the fortifications
is, in fact, Porthos, now the Baron du Vallon, and that’s not all. The
blueprints for the island, although in Porthos’s handwriting, show
evidence of another script that has been erased, that of Aramis.
D’Artagnan later discovers that Aramis has become the bishop of Vannes,
which is, coincidentally, a parish belonging to M. Fouquet. Suspecting
that D’Artagnan has arrived on the king’s behalf to investigate, Aramis
tricks D’Artagnan into wandering around Vannes in search of Porthos, and
sends Porthos on an heroic ride back to Paris to warn Fouquet of the
danger. Fouquet rushes to the king, and gives him Belle-Isle as a
present, thus allaying any suspicion, and at the same time humiliating
Colbert, just minutes before the usher announces someone else seeking an
audience with the king.

And now, the second etext of The Vicomte de Bragelonne. Enjoy!

John Bursey Mordaunt

There is one French custom that may cause confusion. The Duc d’Orleans
is traditionally called “Monsieur” and his wife “Madame.” Gaston, the
king’s uncle, currently holds that title. Upon the event of his death,
it will be conferred upon the king’s brother, Philip, who is currently
the Duc d’Anjou. The customary title of “Monsieur” will go to him as
well, and upon his future wife, Henrietta of England, that of “Madame.”
Gaston’s widow will be referred to as the “Dowager Madame.”—JB

Chapter I. In which D’Artagnan finishes by at Length placing his Hand upon
his Captain’s Commission.

The reader guesses beforehand whom the usher preceded in announcing the
courier from Bretagne. This messenger was easily recognized. It was
D’Artagnan, his clothes dusty, his face inflamed, his hair dripping with
sweat, his legs stiff; he lifted his feet painfully at every step, on
which resounded the clink of his blood-stained spurs. He perceived in the
doorway he was passing through, the superintendent coming out. Fouquet
bowed with a smile to him who, an hour before, was bringing him ruin and
death. D’Artagnan found in his goodness of heart, and in his inexhaustible
vigor of body, enough presence of mind to remember the kind reception of
this man; he bowed then, also, much more from benevolence and compassion,
than from respect. He felt upon his lips the word which had so many times
been repeated to the Duc de Guise: “Fly.” But to pronounce that word would
have been to betray his cause; to speak that word in the cabinet of the
king, and before an usher, would have been to ruin himself gratuitously,
and could save nobody. D’Artagnan then, contented himself with bowing to
Fouquet and entered. At this moment the king floated between the joy the
last words of Fouquet had given him, and his pleasure at the return of
D’Artagnan. Without being a courtier, D’Artagnan had a glance as sure and
as rapid as if he had been one. He read, on his entrance, devouring
humiliation on the countenance of Colbert. He even heard the king say
these words to him:—

“Ah! Monsieur Colbert; you have then nine hundred thousand livres at the
intendance?” Colbert, suffocated, bowed but made no reply. All this scene
entered into the mind of D’Artagnan, by the eyes and ears, at once.

The first word of Louis to his musketeer, as if he wished it to contrast
with what he was saying at the moment, was a kind “good day.” His second
was to send away Colbert. The latter left the king’s cabinet, pallid and
tottering, whilst D’Artagnan twisted up the ends of his mustache.

“I love to see one of my servants in this disorder,” said the king,
admiring the martial stains upon the clothes of his envoy.

“Sire, the thing is this, in two words: Belle-Isle is fortified, admirably
fortified; Belle-Isle has a double enceinte, a citadel, two
detached forts; its ports contain three corsairs; and the side batteries
only await their cannon.”

“Ah! I understand all. Your majesty did not trust to me alone, but sent
some other person,” said he in a reproachful tone.

“Of what importance is the manner, monsieur, in which I have learnt what I
know, so that I know it?”

“Sire, sire,” said the musketeer, without seeking even to conceal his
dissatisfaction; “but I must be permitted to say to your majesty, that it
is not worth while to make me use such speed, to risk twenty times the
breaking of my neck, to salute me on my arrival with such intelligence.
Sire, when people are not trusted, or are deemed insufficient, they should
scarcely be employed.” And D’Artagnan, with a movement perfectly military,
stamped with his foot, and left upon the floor dust stained with blood.
The king looked at him, inwardly enjoying his first triumph.

“Monsieur,” said he, at the expiration of a minute, “not only is
Belle-Isle known to me, but, still further, Belle-Isle is mine.”

“That is well! that is well, sire, I ask but one thing more,” replied
D’Artagnan.—“My discharge.”

“What! your discharge?”

“Without doubt I am too proud to eat the bread of the king without earning
it, or rather by gaining it badly.—My discharge, sire!”

“Oh, oh!”

“I ask for my discharge, or I will take it.”

“You are angry, monsieur?”

“I have reason, mordioux! Thirty-two hours in the saddle, I ride
day and night, I perform prodigies of speed, I arrive stiff as the corpse
of a man who has been hung—and another arrives before me! Come,
sire, I am a fool!—My discharge, sire!”

“Monsieur d’Artagnan,” said Louis, leaning his white hand upon the dusty
arm of the musketeer, “what I tell you will not at all affect that which I
promised you. A king’s word given must be kept.” And the king going
straight to his table, opened a drawer, and took out a folded paper. “Here
is your commission of captain of musketeers; you have won it, Monsieur
d’Artagnan.”

D’Artagnan opened the paper eagerly, and scanned it twice. He could
scarcely believe his eyes.

“And this commission is given you,” continued the king, “not only on
account of your journey to Belle-Isle but, moreover, for your brave
intervention at the Place de Greve. There, likewise, you served me
valiantly.”

“Ah, ah!” said D’Artagnan, without his self-command being able to prevent
a blush from mounting to his eyes—“you know that also, sire?”

“Yes, I know it.”

The king possessed a piercing glance and an infallible judgment when it
was his object to read men’s minds. “You have something to say,” said he
to the musketeer, “something to say which you do not say. Come, speak
freely, monsieur; you know that I told you, once and for all, that you are
to be always quite frank with me.”

“Well, sire! what I have to say is this, that I would prefer being made
captain of the musketeers for having charged a battery at the head of my
company, or taken a city, than for causing two wretches to be hung.”

“Is this quite true you tell me?”

“And why should your majesty suspect me of dissimulation, I ask?”

“Because I have known you well, monsieur; you cannot repent of having
drawn your sword for me.”

“Well, in that your majesty is deceived, and greatly; yes, I do repent of
having drawn my sword on account of the results that action produced; the
poor men who were hung, sire, were neither your enemies nor mine; and they
could not defend themselves.”

The king preserved silence for a moment. “And your companion, M.
d’Artagnan, does he partake of your repentance?”

“My companion?”

“Yes, you were not alone, I have been told.”

“Alone, where?”

“At the Place de Greve.”

“No, sire, no,” said D’Artagnan, blushing at the idea that the king might
have a suspicion that he, D’Artagnan, had wished to engross to himself all
the glory that belonged to Raoul; “no, mordioux! and as your
majesty says, I had a companion, and a good companion, too.”

“A young man?”

“Yes, sire; a young man. Oh! your majesty must accept my compliments, you
are as well informed of things out of doors as things within. It is M.
Colbert who makes all these fine reports to the king.”

“M. Colbert has said nothing but good of you, M. d’Artagnan, and he would
have met with a bad reception if he had come to tell me anything else.”

“That is fortunate!”

“But he also said much good of that young man.”

“And with justice,” said the musketeer.

“In short, it appears that this young man is a fire-eater,” said Louis, in
order to sharpen the sentiment which he mistook for envy.

“A fire-eater! Yes, sire,” repeated D’Artagnan, delighted on his part to
direct the king’s attention to Raoul.

“Do you not know his name?”

“Well, I think—”

“You know him then?”

“I have known him nearly five-and-twenty years, sire.”

“Why, he is scarcely twenty-five years old!” cried the king.

“Well, sire! I have known him ever since he was born, that is all.”

“Do you affirm that?”

“Sire,” said D’Artagnan, “your majesty questions me with a mistrust in
which I recognize another character than your own. M. Colbert, who has so
well informed you, has he not forgotten to tell you that this young man is
the son of my most intimate friend?”

“The Vicomte de Bragelonne?”

“Certainly, sire. The father of the Vicomte de Bragelonne is M. le Comte
de la Fere, who so powerfully assisted in the restoration of King Charles
II. Bragelonne comes of a valiant race, sire.”

“Then he is the son of that nobleman who came to me, or rather to M.
Mazarin, on the part of King Charles II., to offer me his alliance?”

“Exactly, sire.”

“And the Comte de la Fere is a great soldier, say you?”

“Sire, he is a man who has drawn his sword more times for the king, your
father, than there are, at present, months in the happy life of your
majesty.”

“For about forty years; yes, sire. Your majesty may see that I do not
speak to you of yesterday.”

“Should you be glad to see this young man, M. d’Artagnan?”

“Delighted, sire.”

The king touched his bell, and an usher appeared. “Call M. de Bragelonne,”
said the king.

“Ah! ah! he is here?” said D’Artagnan.

“He is on guard to-day, at the Louvre, with the company of the gentlemen
of monsieur le prince.”

The king had scarcely ceased speaking, when Raoul presented himself, and,
on seeing D’Artagnan, smiled on him with that charming smile which is only
found upon the lips of youth.

“Come, come,” said D’Artagnan, familiarly, to Raoul, “the king will allow
you to embrace me; only tell his majesty you thank him.”

Raoul bowed so gracefully, that Louis, to whom all superior qualities were
pleasing when they did not overshadow his own, admired his beauty,
strength, and modesty.

“Monsieur,” said the king, addressing Raoul, “I have asked monsieur le
prince to be kind enough to give you up to me; I have received his reply,
and you belong to me from this morning. Monsieur le prince was a good
master, but I hope you will not lose by the exchange.”

“Yes, yes, Raoul, be satisfied; the king has some good in him,” said
D’Artagnan, who had fathomed the character of Louis, and who played with
his self-love, within certain limits; always observing, be it understood,
the proprieties and flattering, even when he appeared to be bantering.

“Sire,” said Bragelonne, with voice soft and musical, and with the natural
and easy elocution he inherited from his father; “Sire, it is not from
to-day that I belong to your majesty.”

“Oh! no, I know,” said the king, “you mean your enterprise of the Greve.
That day, you were truly mine, monsieur.”

“Sire, it is not of that day I would speak; it would not become me to
refer to so paltry a service in the presence of such a man as M.
d’Artagnan. I would speak of a circumstance which created an epoch in my
life, and which consecrated me, from the age of sixteen, to the devoted
service of your majesty.”

“Ah! ah!” said the king, “what was that circumstance? Tell me, monsieur.”

“This is it, sire.—When I was setting out on my first campaign, that
is to say, to join the army of monsieur le prince, M. le Comte de la Fere
came to conduct me as far as Saint-Denis, where the remains of King Louis
XIII. wait, upon the lowest steps of the funeral basilique, a
successor, whom God will not send him, I hope, for many years. Then he
made me swear upon the ashes of our masters, to serve royalty, represented
by you—incarnate in you, sire—to serve it in word, in thought,
and in action. I swore, and God and the dead were witnesses to my oath.
During ten years, sire, I have not so often as I desired had occasion to
keep it. I am a soldier of your majesty, and nothing else; and, on calling
me nearer to you, I do not change my master, I only change my garrison.”

Raoul was silent and bowed. Louis still listened after he had done
speaking.

“Mordioux!” cried D’Artagnan, “that was well spoken! was it not,
your majesty? A good race! a noble race!”

“Yes,” murmured the king, without, however daring to manifest his emotion,
for it had no other cause than contact with a nature intrinsically noble.
“Yes, monsieur, you say truly:—wherever you were, you were the
king’s. But in changing your garrison, believe me you will find an
advancement of which you are worthy.”

Raoul saw that this ended what the king had to say to him. And with the
perfect tact which characterized his refined nature, he bowed and retired.

“Is there anything else, monsieur, of which you have to inform me?” said
the king, when he found himself again alone with D’Artagnan.

“Yes, sire, and I kept that news for the last, for it is sad, and will
clothe European royalty in mourning.”

“What do you tell me?”

“Sire, in passing through Blois, a word, a sad word, echoed from the
palace, struck my ear.”

“In truth, you terrify me, M. d’Artagnan.”

“Sire, this word was pronounced to me by a piqueur, who wore crape
on his arm.”

“My uncle, Gaston of Orleans, perhaps.”

“Sire, he has rendered his last sigh.”

“And I was not warned of it!” cried the king, whose royal susceptibility
saw an insult in the absence of this intelligence.

“Oh! do not be angry, sire,” said D’Artagnan; “neither the couriers of
Paris, nor the couriers of the whole world, can travel with your servant;
the courier from Blois will not be here these two hours, and he rides
well, I assure you, seeing that I only passed him on the thither side of
Orleans.”

“My uncle Gaston,” murmured Louis, pressing his hand to his brow, and
comprising in those three words all that his memory recalled of that
symbol of opposing sentiments.

“Eh! yes, sire, it is thus,” said D’Artagnan, philosophically replying to
the royal thought, “it is thus the past flies away.”

“That is true, monsieur, that is true; but there remains for us, thank
God! the future; and we will try to make it not too dark.”

“You are right, monsieur; I had forgotten the hundred leagues you have
just ridden. Go, monsieur, take care of one of the best of soldiers, and
when you have reposed a little, come and place yourself at my disposal.”

“Sire, absent or present, I am always yours.”

D’Artagnan bowed and retired. Then, as if he had only come from
Fontainebleau, he quickly traversed the Louvre to rejoin Bragelonne.

Chapter II. A Lover and His Mistress.

Whilst the wax-lights were burning in the castle of Blois, around the
inanimate body of Gaston of Orleans, that last representative of the past;
whilst the bourgeois of the city were thinking out his epitaph,
which was far from being a panegyric; whilst madame the dowager, no longer
remembering that in her young days she had loved that senseless corpse to
such a degree as to fly the paternal palace for his sake, was making,
within twenty paces of the funeral apartment, her little calculations of
interest and her little sacrifices of pride; other interests and other
prides were in agitation in all the parts of the castle into which a
living soul could penetrate. Neither the lugubrious sounds of the bells,
nor the voices of the chanters, nor the splendor of the wax-lights through
the windows, nor the preparations for the funeral, had power to divert the
attention of two persons, placed at a window of the interior court—a
window that we are acquainted with, and which lighted a chamber forming
part of what were called the little apartments. For the rest, a joyous
beam of the sun, for the sun appeared to care little for the loss France
had just suffered; a sunbeam, we say, descended upon them, drawing
perfumes from the neighboring flowers, and animating the walls themselves.
These two persons, so occupied, not by the death of the duke, but by the
conversation which was the consequence of that death, were a young woman
and a young man. The latter personage, a man of from twenty-five to
twenty-six years of age, with a mien sometimes lively and sometimes dull,
making good use of two large eyes, shaded with long eye-lashes, was short
of stature and swart of skin; he smiled with an enormous, but
well-furnished mouth, and his pointed chin, which appeared to enjoy a
mobility nature does not ordinarily grant to that portion of the
countenance, leant from time to time very lovingly towards his
interlocutrix, who, we must say, did not always draw back so rapidly as
strict propriety had a right to require. The young girl—we know her,
for we have already seen her, at that very same window, by the light of
that same sun—the young girl presented a singular mixture of shyness
and reflection; she was charming when she laughed, beautiful when she
became serious; but, let us hasten to say, she was more frequently
charming than beautiful. These two appeared to have attained the
culminating point of a discussion—half-bantering, half-serious.

“Now, Monsieur Malicorne,” said the young girl, “does it, at length,
please you that we should talk reasonably?”

“You believe that that is very easy, Mademoiselle Aure,” replied the young
man. “To do what we like, when we can only do what we are able—”

“Good! there he is bewildered in his phrases.”

“Who, I?”

“Yes, you; quit that lawyer’s logic, my dear.”

“Another impossibility. Clerk I am, Mademoiselle de Montalais.”

“Demoiselle I am, Monsieur Malicorne.”

“Alas, I know it well, and you overwhelm me by your rank; so I will say no
more to you.”

“Well, no, I don’t overwhelm you; say what you have to tell me—say
it, I insist upon it.”

“Well, I obey you.”

“That is truly fortunate.”

“Monsieur is dead.”

“Ah, peste! that’s news! And where do you come from, to be able to
tell us that?”

“I come from Orleans, mademoiselle.”

“And is that all the news you bring?”

“Ah, no; I am come to tell you that Madame Henrietta of England is coming
to marry the king’s brother.”

“Indeed, Malicorne, you are insupportable with your news of the last
century. Now, mind, if you persist in this bad habit of laughing at
people, I will have you turned out.”

“Oh!”

“Yes, for really you exasperate me.”

“There, there. Patience, mademoiselle.”

“You want to make yourself of consequence; I know well enough why. Go!”

“Tell me, and I will answer you frankly, yes, if the thing be true.”

“You know that I am anxious to have that commission of lady of honor,
which I have been foolish enough to ask of you, and you do not use your
credit.”

“Who, I?” Malicorne cast down his eyes, joined his hands, and assumed his
sullen air. “And what credit can the poor clerk of a procurer have, pray?”

“Your father has not twenty thousand livres a year for nothing, M.
Malicorne.”

“A provincial fortune, Mademoiselle de Montalais.”

“Your father is not in the secrets of monsieur le prince for nothing.”

“An advantage which is confined to lending monseigneur money.”

“In a word, you are not the most cunning young fellow in the province for
nothing.”

“You flatter me!”

“Who, I?”

“Yes, you.”

“How so?”

“Since I maintain that I have no credit, and you maintain I have.”

“Well, then,—my commission?”

“Well,—your commission?”

“Shall I have it, or shall I not?”

“You shall have it.”

“Ay, but when?”

“When you like.”

“Where is it, then?”

“In my pocket.”

“How—in your pocket?”

“Yes.”

And, with a smile, Malicorne drew from his pocket a letter, upon which
mademoiselle seized as a prey, and which she read eagerly. As she read,
her face brightened.

“Malicorne,” cried she after having read it, “In truth, you are a good
lad.”

“What for, mademoiselle?”

“Because you might have been paid for this commission, and you have not.”
And she burst into a loud laugh, thinking to put the clerk out of
countenance; but Malicorne sustained the attack bravely.

“I do not understand you,” said he. It was now Montalais who was
disconcerted in her turn. “I have declared my sentiments to you,”
continued Malicorne. “You have told me three times, laughing all the
while, that you did not love me; you have embraced me once without
laughing, and that is all I want.”

“All?” said the proud and coquettish Montalais, in a tone through which
the wounded pride was visible.

“Absolutely all, mademoiselle,” replied Malicorne.

“Ah!”—And this monosyllable indicated as much anger as the young man
might have expected gratitude. He shook his head quietly.

“Listen, Montalais,” said he, without heeding whether that familiarity
pleased his mistress or not; “let us not dispute about it.”

“And why not?”

“Because during the year which I have known you, you might have had me
turned out of doors twenty times if I did not please you.”

“Indeed; and on what account should I have had you turned out?”

“Because I have been sufficiently impertinent for that.”

“Oh, that,—yes, that’s true.”

“You see plainly that you are forced to avow it,” said Malicorne.

“Monsieur Malicorne!”

“Don’t let us be angry; if you have retained me, then it has not been
without cause.”

“It is not, at least, because I love you,” cried Montalais.

“Granted. I will even say, at this moment, I am certain that you hate me.”

“Oh, you have never spoken so truly.”

“Well, on my part, I detest you.”

“Ah! I take the act.”

“Take it. You find me brutal and foolish; on my part I find you have a
harsh voice, and your face is too often distorted with anger. At this
moment you would allow yourself to be thrown out of that window rather
than allow me to kiss the tip of your finger; I would precipitate myself
from the top of the balcony rather than touch the hem of your robe. But,
in five minutes, you will love me, and I shall adore you. Oh, it is just
so.”

“I doubt it.”

“And I swear it.”

“Coxcomb!”

“And then, that is not the true reason. You stand in need of me, Aure, and
I of you. When it pleases you to be gay, I make you laugh; when it suits
me to be loving, I look at you. I have given you a commission of lady of
honor which you wished for; you will give me, presently, something I wish
for.”

“I will?”

“Yes, you will; but, at this moment, my dear Aure, I declare to you that I
wish for absolutely nothing, so be at ease.”

“You are a frightful man, Malicorne; I was going to rejoice at getting
this commission, and thus you quench my joy.”

“Good; there is no time lost,—you will rejoice when I am gone.”

“Go, then; and after—”

“So be it; but in the first place, a piece of advice.”

“What is it?”

“Resume your good-humor,—you are ugly when you pout.”

“Coarse!”

“Come, let us tell the truth to each other, while we are about it.”

“Oh, Malicorne! Bad-hearted man!”

“Oh, Montalais! Ungrateful girl!”

The young man leant with his elbow upon the window-frame; Montalais took a
book and opened it. Malicorne stood up, brushed his hat with his sleeve,
smoothed down his black doublet;—Montalais, though pretending to
read, looked at him out of the corner of her eye.

“Good!” cried she, furious; “he has assumed his respectful air—and
he will pout for a week.”

“A fortnight, mademoiselle,” said Malicorne, bowing.

Montalais lifted up her little doubled fist. “Monster!” said she; “oh!
that I were a man!”

“What would you do to me?”

“I would strangle you.”

“Ah! very well, then,” said Malicorne; “I believe I begin to desire
something.”

“And what do you desire, Monsieur Demon? That I should lose my soul from
anger?”

Malicorne was rolling his hat respectfully between his fingers; but, all
at once, he let fall his hat, seized the young girl by the shoulders,
pulled her towards him, and sealed her mouth with two lips that were very
warm, for a man pretending to so much indifference. Aure would have cried
out, but the cry was stifled in his kiss. Nervous and, apparently, angry,
the young girl pushed Malicorne against the wall.

“Good!” said Malicorne, philosophically, “that’s enough for six weeks.
Adieu, mademoiselle, accept my very humble salutation.” And he made three
steps towards the door.

“Well! no,—you shall not go!” cried Montalais, stamping with her
little foot. “Stay where you are! I order you!”

“You order me?”

“Yes; am I not mistress?”

“Of my heart and soul, without doubt.”

“A pretty property! ma foi! The soul is silly and the heart dry.”

“Beware, Montalais, I know you,” said Malicorne; “you are going to fall in
love with your humble servant.”

“Well, yes!” said she, hanging round his neck with childish indolence,
rather than with loving abandonment. “Well, yes! for I must thank you at
least.”

“And for what?”

“For the commission; is it not my whole future?”

“And mine.”

Montalais looked at him.

“It is frightful,” said she, “that one can never guess whether you are
speaking seriously or not.”

“I cannot speak more seriously. I was going to Paris,—you are going
there,—we are going there.”

“And so it was for that motive only you have served me; selfish fellow!”

“What would you have me say, Aure? I cannot live without you.”

“Well! in truth, it is just so with me; you are, nevertheless, it must be
confessed, a very bad-hearted young man.”

“Aure, my dear Aure, take care! if you take to calling me names again, you
know the effect they produce upon me, and I shall adore you.” And so
saying, Malicorne drew the young girl a second time towards him. But at
that instant a step resounded on the staircase. The young people were so
close, that they would have been surprised in the arms of each other, if
Montalais had not violently pushed Malicorne, with his back against the
door, just then opening. A loud cry, followed by angry reproaches,
immediately resounded. It was Madame de Saint-Remy who uttered the cry and
the angry words. The unlucky Malicorne almost crushed her between the wall
and the door she was coming in at.

“It is again that good-for-nothing!” cried the old lady. “Always here!”

“Ah, madame!” replied Malicorne, in a respectful tone; “it is eight long
days since I was here.”

Chapter III. In Which We at Length See the True Heroine of this History

Appear.

Behind Madame de Saint-Remy stood Mademoiselle de la Valliere. She heard
the explosion of maternal anger, and as she divined the cause of it, she
entered the chamber trembling, and perceived the unlucky Malicorne, whose
woeful countenance might have softened or set laughing whoever observed it
coolly. He had promptly intrenched himself behind a large chair, as if to
avoid the first attacks of Madame de Saint-Remy; he had no hopes of
prevailing with words, for she spoke louder than he, and without stopping;
but he reckoned upon the eloquence of his gestures. The old lady would
neither listen to nor see anything; Malicorne had long been one of her
antipathies. But her anger was too great not to overflow from Malicorne on
his accomplice. Montalais had her turn.

“And you, mademoiselle; you may be certain I shall inform madame of what
is going on in the apartment of one of her ladies of honor?”

“Hold your tongue, mademoiselle, and do not uselessly trouble yourself to
intercede for unworthy people; that a young maid of honor like you should
be subjected to a bad example is, certes, a misfortune great enough; but
that you should sanction it by your indulgence is what I will not allow.”

“But in truth,” said Montalais, rebelling again, “I do not know under what
pretense you treat me thus. I am doing no harm, I suppose?”

“And that great good-for-nothing, mademoiselle,” resumed Madame de
Saint-Remy, pointing to Malicorne, “is he here to do any good, I ask you?”

“He is neither here for good nor harm, madame; he comes to see me, that is
all.”

“It is all very well! all very well!” said the old lady. “Her royal
highness shall be informed of it, and she will judge.”

“At all events, I do not see why,” replied Montalais, “it should be
forbidden M. Malicorne to have intentions towards me, if his intentions
are honorable.”

“Honorable intentions with such a face!” cried Madame de Saint-Remy.

“I thank you in the name of my face, madame,” said Malicorne.

“Come, my daughter, come,” continued Madame de Saint-Remy; “we will go and
inform madame that at the very moment she is weeping for her husband, at
the moment when we are all weeping for a master in this old castle of
Blois, the abode of grief, there are people who amuse themselves with
flirtations!”

“Oh!” cried both the accused, with one voice.

“A maid of honor! a maid of honor!” cried the old lady, lifting her hands
towards heaven.

“Well! it is there you are mistaken, madame,” said Montalais, highly
exasperated; “I am no longer a maid of honor, of madame’s at least.”

“Have you given in your resignation, mademoiselle? That is well! I cannot
but applaud such a determination, and I do applaud it.”

“I do not give in my resignation, madame; I take another service,—that
is all.”

“In the bourgeoisie or in the robe?” asked Madame de
Saint-Remy, disdainfully.

“Please to learn, madame, that I am not a girl to serve either bourgeoises
or robines; and that instead of the miserable court at which you
vegetate, I am going to reside in a court almost royal.”

“Ha, ha! a royal court,” said Madame de Saint-Remy, forcing a laugh; “a
royal court! What do you think of that, my daughter?”

And she turned towards Mademoiselle de la Valliere, whom she would by main
force have dragged away from Montalais, and who instead of obeying the
impulse of Madame de Saint-Remy, looked first at her mother and then at
Montalais with her beautiful conciliatory eyes.

“I did not say a royal court, madame,” replied Montalais; “because Madame
Henrietta of England, who is about to become the wife of S. A. R.
Monsieur, is not a queen. I said almost royal, and I spoke correctly,
since she will be sister-in-law to the king.”

A thunderbolt falling upon the castle of Blois would not have astonished
Madame de Saint-Remy more than the last sentence of Montalais.

“What do you say? of Son Altesse Royale Madame Henrietta?” stammered out
the old lady.

“I say I am going to belong to her household, as maid of honor; that is
what I say.”

“As maid of honor!” cried, at the same time, Madame de Saint-Remy with
despair, and Mademoiselle de la Valliere with delight.

“Yes, madame, as maid of honor.”

The old lady’s head sank down as if the blow had been too severe for her.
But, almost immediately recovering herself, she launched a last projectile
at her adversary.

“Oh! oh!” said she; “I have heard of many of these sorts of promises
beforehand, which often lead people to flatter themselves with wild hopes,
and at the last moment, when the time comes to keep the promises, and have
the hopes realized, they are surprised to see the great credit upon which
they reckoned vanish like smoke.”

“Oh! madame, the credit of my protector is incontestable and his promises
are as good as deeds.”

“And would it be indiscreet to ask you the name of this powerful
protector?”

“Oh! mon Dieu! no! it is that gentleman there,” said Montalais,
pointing to Malicorne, who, during this scene, had preserved the most
imperturbable coolness, and the most comic dignity.

“Monsieur!” cried Madame de Saint-Remy, with an explosion of hilarity,
“monsieur is your protector! Is the man whose credit is so powerful, and
whose promises are as good as deeds, Monsieur Malicorne!”

Malicorne bowed.

As to Montalais, as her sole reply, she drew the brevet from her pocket,
and showed it to the old lady.

“Here is the brevet,” said she.

At once all was over. As soon as she had cast a rapid glance over this
fortunate brevet, the good lady clasped her hands, an unspeakable
expression of envy and despair contracted her countenance, and she was
obliged to sit down to avoid fainting. Montalais was not malicious enough
to rejoice extravagantly at her victory, or to overwhelm the conquered
enemy, particularly when that enemy was the mother of her friend; she used
then, but did not abuse her triumph. Malicorne was less generous; he
assumed noble poses in his fauteuil and stretched himself
out with a familiarity which, two hours earlier, would have drawn upon him
threats of a caning.

“Maid of honor to the young madame!” repeated Madame de Saint-Remy, still
but half convinced.

“Yes, madame, and through the protection of M. Malicorne, moreover.”

“It is incredible!” repeated the old lady: “is it not incredible, Louise?”
But Louise did not reply; she was sitting, thoughtfully, almost sad;
passing one had over her beautiful brow, she sighed heavily.

“Well, but, monsieur,” said Madame de Saint-Remy, all at once, “how did
you manage to obtain this post?”

“I asked for it, madame.”

“Of whom?”

“One of my friends.”

“And you have friends sufficiently powerful at court to give you such
proofs of their credit?”

“It appears so.”

“And may one ask the name of these friends?”

“I did not say I had many friends, madame, I said I had one friend.”

“And that friend is called?”

“Peste! madame, you go too far! When one has a friend as powerful
as mine, we do not publish his name in that fashion, in open day, in order
that he may be stolen from us.”

“You are right, monsieur, to be silent as to that name; for I think it
would be pretty difficult for you to tell it.”

“At all events,” said Montalais, “if the friend does not exist, the brevet
does, and that cuts short the question.”

“Then, I conceive,” said Madame de Saint-Remy, with the gracious smile of
the cat who is going to scratch, “when I found monsieur here just now—”

“Well?”

“He brought you the brevet.”

“Exactly, madame; you have guessed rightly.”

“Well, then, nothing can be more moral or proper.”

“I think so, madame.”

“And I have been wrong, as it appears, in reproaching you, mademoiselle.”

“Very wrong, madame; but I am so accustomed to your reproaches, that I
pardon you these.”

“In that case, let us begone, Louise; we have nothing to do but retire.
Well!”

“And why should I, my dear Aure?” replied the girl in a voice soft as a
flute.

“Dame!” resumed Madame de Saint-Remy; “if she did bear you a little
ill-will, poor girl, she could not be much blamed.”

“And why should she bear me ill-will, good gracious?”

“It appears to me that she is of as good a family, and as pretty as you.”

“Mother! mother!” cried Louise.

“Prettier a hundred times, madame—not of a better family; but that
does not tell me why Louise should bear me ill-will.”

“Do you think it will be very amusing for her to be buried alive at Blois,
when you are going to shine at Paris?”

“But, madame, it is not I who prevent Louise following me thither; on the
contrary, I should certainly be most happy if she came there.”

“But it appears that M. Malicorne, who is all-powerful at court—”

“Ah! so much the worse, madame,” said Malicorne, “every one for himself in
this poor world.”

“Malicorne! Malicorne!” said Montalais. Then stooping towards the young
man:—

“Occupy Madame de Saint-Remy, either in disputing with her, or making it
up with her; I must speak to Louise.” And, at the same time, a soft
pressure of the hand recompensed Malicorne for his future obedience.
Malicorne went grumbling towards Madame de Saint-Remy, whilst Montalais
said to her friend, throwing one arm around her neck:—

“What is the matter? Tell me. Is it true that you would not love me
if I were to shine, as your mother says?”

“Oh, no!” said the young girl, with difficulty restraining her tears; “on
the contrary, I rejoice at your good fortune.”

“Rejoice! why, one would say you are ready to cry!”

“Do people never weep except from envy?”

“Oh! yes, I understand; I am going to Paris and that word Paris recalls to
your mind a certain cavalier—”

“Aure!”

“A certain cavalier who formerly lived near Blois, and who now resides at
Paris.”

“In truth, I know not what ails me, but I feel stifled.”

“Weep, then, weep, as you cannot give me a smile!”

Louise raised her sweet face, which the tears, rolling down one after the
other, illumined like diamonds.

“Come, confess,” said Montalais.

“What shall I confess?”

“What makes you weep; people don’t weep without cause. I am your friend;
whatever you would wish me to do, I will do. Malicorne is more powerful
than you would think. Do you wish to go to Paris?”

“Alas!” sighed Louise.

“Do you wish to come to Paris?”

“To remain here alone, in this old castle, I who have enjoyed the
delightful habit of listening to your songs, of pressing your hand, of
running about the park with you. Oh! how I shall be ennuyee! how
quickly I shall die!”

“Do you wish to come to Paris?”

Louise breathed another sigh.

“You do not answer me.”

“What would you that I should reply?”

“Yes or no; that is not very difficult, I think.”

“Oh! you are very fortunate, Montalais!”

“That is to say you would like to be in my place.”

Louise was silent.

“Little obstinate thing!” said Montalais; “did ever any one keep her
secrets from her friend thus? But, confess that you would like to come to
Paris; confess that you are dying with the wish to see Raoul again.”

“I cannot confess that.”

“Then you are wrong.”

“In what way?”

“Because—do you not see this brevet?”

“To be sure I do.”

“Well, I would have got you a similar one.”

“By whose means?”

“Malicorne’s.”

“Aure, are you telling the truth? Is that possible?”

“Malicorne is there; and what he has done for me, he surely can do for
you.”

Malicorne had heard his name pronounced twice; he was delighted at having
an opportunity of coming to a conclusion with Madame de Saint-Remy, and he
turned round:—

“Little dissembler!” said Montalais, “try again to make me believe you are
not in love with Raoul.”

Louise blushed like a rose in June, but instead of replying, she ran and
embraced her mother. “Madame,” said she, “do you know that M. Malicorne is
going to have me appointed maid of honor?”

“M. Malicorne is a prince in disguise,” replied the old lady, “he is
all-powerful, seemingly.”

“Should you also like to be a maid of honor?” asked Malicorne of Madame de
Saint-Remy. “Whilst I am about it, I might as well get everybody
appointed.”

And upon that he went away, leaving the poor lady quite disconcerted.

“Humph!” murmured Malicorne as he descended the stairs,—“Humph!
there goes another note of a thousand livres! but I must get through as
well as I can; my friend Manicamp does nothing for nothing.”

Chapter IV. Malicorne and Manicamp.

The introduction of these two new personages into this history and that
mysterious affinity of names and sentiments, merit some attention on the
part of both historian and reader. We will then enter into some details
concerning Messieurs Malicorne and Manicamp. Malicorne, we know, had made
the journey to Orleans in search of the brevet destined for
Mademoiselle de Montalais, the arrival of which had produced such a strong
feeling at the castle of Blois. At that moment, M. de Manicamp was at
Orleans. A singular person was this M. de Manicamp; a very intelligent
young fellow, always poor, always needy, although he dipped his hand
freely into the purse of M. le Comte de Guiche, one of the best furnished
purses of the period. M. le Comte de Guiche had had, as the companion of
his boyhood, this De Manicamp, a poor gentleman, vassal-born, of the house
of Gramont. M. de Manicamp, with his tact and talent had created himself a
revenue in the opulent family of the celebrated marechal. From his infancy
he had, with calculation beyond his age, lent his mane and complaisance to
the follies of the Comte de Guiche. If his noble companion had stolen some
fruit destined for Madame la Marechale, if he had broken a mirror, or put
out a dog’s eye, Manicamp declared himself guilty of the crime committed,
and received the punishment, which was not made the milder for falling on
the innocent. But this was the way this system of abnegation was paid for:
instead of wearing such mean habiliments as his paternal fortunes entitled
him to, he was able to appear brilliant, superb, like a young noble of
fifty thousand livres a year. It was not that he was mean in character or
humble in spirit; no, he was a philosopher, or rather he had the
indifference, the apathy, the obstinacy which banish from man every
sentiment of the supernatural. His sole ambition was to spend money. But,
in this respect, the worthy M. de Manicamp was a gulf. Three or four times
every year he drained the Comte de Guiche, and when the Comte de Guiche
was thoroughly drained, when he had turned out his pockets and his purse
before him, when he declared that it would be at least a fortnight before
paternal munificence would refill those pockets and that purse, Manicamp
lost all his energy, he went to bed, remained there, ate nothing and sold
his handsome clothes, under the pretense that, remaining in bed, he did
not want them. During this prostration of mind and strength, the purse of
the Comte de Guiche was getting full again, and when once filled,
overflowed into that of De Manicamp, who bought new clothes, dressed
himself again, and recommenced the same life he had followed before. The
mania of selling his new clothes for a quarter of what they were worth,
had rendered our hero sufficiently celebrated in Orleans, a city where, in
general, we should be puzzled to say why he came to pass his days of
penitence. Provincial debauches, petits-maitres of six hundred
livres a year, shared the fragments of his opulence.

Among the admirers of these splendid toilettes, our friend Malicorne was
conspicuous; he was the son of a syndic of the city, of whom M. de Conde,
always needy as a De Conde, often borrowed money at enormous interest. M.
Malicorne kept the paternal money-chest; that is to say, that in those
times of easy morals, he had made for himself, by following the example of
his father, and lending at high interest for short terms, a revenue of
eighteen hundred livres, without reckoning six hundred livres furnished by
the generosity of the syndic; so that Malicorne was the king of the gay
youth of Orleans, having two thousand four hundred livres to scatter,
squander, and waste on follies of every kind. But, quite contrary to
Manicamp, Malicorne was terribly ambitious. He loved from ambition; he
spent money out of ambition; and he would have ruined himself for
ambition. Malicorne had determined to rise, at whatever price it might
cost, and for this, whatever price it did cost, he had given himself a
mistress and a friend. The mistress, Mademoiselle de Montalais, was cruel,
as regarded love; but she was of a noble family, and that was sufficient
for Malicorne. The friend had little or no friendship, but he was the
favorite of the Comte de Guiche, himself the friend of Monsieur, the
king’s brother; and that was sufficient for Malicorne. Only, in the
chapter of charges, Mademoiselle de Montalais cost per annum:—ribbons,
gloves, and sweets, a thousand livres. De Manicamp cost—money lent,
never returned—from twelve to fifteen hundred livres per annum.
So that there was nothing left for Malicorne. Ah! yes, we are mistaken;
there was left the paternal strong box. He employed a mode of proceeding,
upon which he preserved the most profound secrecy, and which consisted in
advancing to himself, from the coffers of the syndic, half a dozen year’s
profits, that is to say, fifteen thousand livres, swearing to himself—observe,
quite to himself—to repay this deficiency as soon as an opportunity
should present itself. The opportunity was expected to be the concession
of a good post in the household of Monsieur, when that household would be
established at the period of his marriage. This juncture had arrived, and
the household was about to be established. A good post in the family of a
prince of the blood, when it is given by the credit, and on the
recommendation of a friend, like the Comte de Guiche, is worth at least
twelve thousand livres per annum; and by the means which M.
Malicorne had taken to make his revenues fructify, twelve thousand livres
might rise to twenty thousand. Then, when once an incumbent of this post,
he would marry Mademoiselle de Montalais. Mademoiselle de Montalais, of a
half noble family, not only would be dowered, but would ennoble Malicorne.
But, in order that Mademoiselle de Montalais, who had not a large
patrimonial fortune, although an only daughter, should be suitably
dowered, it was necessary that she should belong to some great princess,
as prodigal as the dowager Madame was covetous. And in order that the wife
should not be of one party whilst the husband belonged to the other, a
situation which presents serious inconveniences, particularly with
characters like those of the future consorts—Malicorne had imagined
the idea of making the central point of union the household of Monsieur,
the king’s brother. Mademoiselle de Montalais would be maid of honor to
Madame. M. Malicorne would be officer to Monsieur.

It is plain the plan was formed by a clear head; it is plain, also, that
it had been bravely executed. Malicorne had asked Manicamp to ask a brevet
of maid of honor of the Comte de Guiche; and the Comte de Guiche had asked
this brevet of Monsieur, who had signed it without hesitation. The
constructive plan of Malicorne—for we may well suppose that the
combinations of a mind as active as his were not confined to the present,
but extended to the future—the constructive plan of Malicorne, we
say, was this:—To obtain entrance into the household of Madame
Henrietta for a woman devoted to himself, who was intelligent, young,
handsome, and intriguing; to learn, by means of this woman, all the
feminine secrets of the young household; whilst he, Malicorne, and his
friend Manicamp, should, between them, know all the male secrets of the
young community. It was by these means that a rapid and splendid fortune
might be acquired at one and the same time. Malicorne was a vile name; he
who bore it had too much wit to conceal this truth from himself; but an
estate might be purchased; and Malicorne of some place, or even De
Malicorne itself, for short, would ring more nobly on the ear.

It was not improbable that a most aristocratic origin might be hunted up
by the heralds for this name of Malicorne; might it not come from some
estate where a bull with mortal horns had caused some great misfortune,
and baptized the soil with the blood it had spilt? Certes, this plan
presented itself bristling with difficulties: but the greatest of all was
Mademoiselle de Montalais herself. Capricious, variable, close, giddy,
free, prudish, a virgin armed with claws, Erigone stained with grapes, she
sometimes overturned, with a single dash of her white fingers, or with a
single puff from her laughing lips, the edifice which had exhausted
Malicorne’s patience for a month.

Love apart, Malicorne was happy; but this love, which he could not help
feeling, he had the strength to conceal with care; persuaded that at the
least relaxing of the ties by which he had bound his Protean female, the
demon would overthrow and laugh at him. He humbled his mistress by
disdaining her. Burning with desire, when she advanced to tempt him, he
had the art to appear ice, persuaded that if he opened his arms, she would
run away laughing at him. On her side, Montalais believed she did not love
Malicorne; whilst, on the contrary, in reality she did. Malicorne repeated
to her so often his protestation of indifference, that she finished,
sometimes, by believing him; and then she believed she detested Malicorne.
If she tried to bring him back by coquetry, Malicorne played the coquette
better than she could. But what made Montalais hold to Malicorne in an
indissoluble fashion, was that Malicorne always came cram full of fresh
news from the court and the city; Malicorne always brought to Blois a
fashion, a secret, or a perfume; that Malicorne never asked for a meeting,
but, on the contrary, required to be supplicated to receive the favors he
burned to obtain. On her side, Montalais was no miser with stories. By her
means, Malicorne learnt all that passed at Blois, in the family of the
dowager Madame; and he related to Manicamp tales that made him ready to
die with laughing, which the latter, out of idleness, took ready-made to
M. de Guiche, who carried them to Monsieur.

Such, in two words, was the woof of petty interests and petty conspiracies
which united Blois with Orleans, and Orleans with Pairs; and which was
about to bring into the last named city where she was to produce so great
a revolution, the poor little La Valliere, who was far from suspecting, as
she returned joyfully, leaning on the arm of her mother, for what a
strange future she was reserved. As to the good man, Malicorne—we
speak of the syndic of Orleans—he did not see more clearly into the
present than others did into the future; and had no suspicion as he
walked, every day, between three and five o’clock, after his dinner, upon
the Place Sainte-Catherine, in his gray coat, cut after the fashion of
Louis XIII. and his cloth shoes with great knots of ribbon, that it was he
who was paying for all those bursts of laughter, all those stolen kisses,
all those whisperings, all those little keepsakes, and all those bubble
projects which formed a chain of forty-five leagues in length, from the
palais of Blois to the Palais Royal.

Chapter V: Manicamp and Malicorne.

Malicorne, then, left Blois, as we have said, and went to find his friend,
Manicamp, then in temporary retreat in the city of Orleans. It was just at
the moment when that young nobleman was employed in selling the last
decent clothing he had left. He had, a fortnight before, extorted from the
Comte de Guiche a hundred pistoles, all he had, to assist in equipping him
properly to go and meet Madame, on her arrival at Le Havre. He had drawn
from Malicorne, three days before, fifty pistoles, the price of the brevet
obtained for Montalais. He had then no expectation of anything else,
having exhausted all his resources, with the exception of selling a
handsome suit of cloth and satin, embroidered and laced with gold, which
had been the admiration of the court. But to be able to sell this suit,
the last he had left,—as we have been forced to confess to the
reader—Manicamp had been obliged to take to his bed. No more fire,
no more pocket-money, no more walking-money, nothing but sleep to take the
place of repasts, companies and balls. It has been said—“He who
sleeps, dines;” but it has never been affirmed—He who sleeps, plays—or,
He who sleeps, dances. Manicamp, reduced to this extremity of neither
playing nor dancing, for a week at least, was, consequently, very sad; he
was expecting a usurer, and saw Malicorne enter. A cry of distress escaped
him.

“Eh! what!” said he, in a tone which nothing can describe, “is that you
again, dear friend?”

“Humph! you are very polite!” said Malicorne.

“Ay, but look you, I was expecting money, and, instead of money, I see you.”

“And suppose I brought you some money?”

“Oh! that would be quite another thing. You are very welcome, my dear
friend!”

And he held out his hand, not for the hand of Malicorne, but for the
purse. Malicorne pretended to be mistaken, and gave him his hand.

“And the money?” said Manicamp.

“My dear friend, if you wish to have it, earn it.”

“What must be done for it?”

“Earn it, parbleu!”

“And after what fashion?”

“Oh! that is rather trying, I warn you.”

“The devil!”

“You must get out of bed, and go immediately to M. le Comte de Guiche.”

“I get up!” said Manicamp, stretching himself in his bed, complacently,
“oh, no, thank you!”

“You have sold all your clothes?”

“No, I have one suit left, the handsomest even, but I expect a purchaser.”

“And the chausses?”

“Well, if you look, you will see them on that chair.”

“Very well! since you have some chausses and a pourpoint
left, put your legs into the first and your back into the other; have a
horse saddled, and set off.”

“Not I.”

“And why not?”

“Morbleu! don’t you know, then, that M. de Guiche is at Etampes?”

“No, I thought he was at Paris. You will then only have fifteen leagues to
go, instead of thirty.”

“You are a wonderfully clever fellow! If I were to ride fifteen leagues in
these clothes, they would never be fit to put on again; and, instead of
selling them for thirty pistoles, I should be obliged to take fifteen.”

“Sell them for whatever you like, but I must have a second commission of
maid of honor.”

“Good! for whom? Is Montalais doubled, then?”

“Vile fellow!—It is you who are doubled. You swallow up two fortunes—mine,
and that of M. le Comte de Guiche.”

“You should say, that of M. le Comte de Guiche and yours.”

“That is true; honor where it is due; but I return to my brevet.”

“And you are wrong.”

“Prove me that.”

“My friend, there will only be twelve maids of honor for madame; I have
already obtained for you what twelve hundred women are trying for, and for
that I was forced to employ all my diplomacy.”

“Oh! yes, I know you have been quite heroic, my dear friend.”

“We know what we are about,” said Manicamp.

“To whom do you tell that? When I am king, I promise you one thing.”

“What? To call yourself Malicorne the First?”

“No; to make you superintendent of my finances; but that is not the
question now.”

“Unfortunately.”

“The present affair is to procure for me a second place of maid of honor.”

“My friend, if you were to promise me the price of heaven, I would decline
to disturb myself at this moment.”

Malicorne chinked the money in his pocket.

“There are twenty pistoles here,” said Malicorne.

“And what would you do with twenty pistoles, mon Dieu!”

“Well!” said Malicorne, a little angry, “suppose I were to add them to the
five hundred you already owe me?”

“You are right,” replied Manicamp, stretching out his hand again, “and
from that point of view I can accept them. Give them to me.”

“An instant, what the devil! it is not only holding out your hand that
will do; if I give you the twenty pistoles, shall I have my brevet?”

“To be sure you shall.”

“Soon?”

“To-day.”

“Oh! take care! Monsieur de Manicamp; you undertake much, and I do not ask
that. Thirty leagues in a day is too much, you would kill yourself.”

“I think nothing impossible when obliging a friend.”

“You are quite heroic.”

“Where are the twenty pistoles?”

“Here they are,” said Malicorne, showing them.

“That’s well.”

“Yes, but my dear M. Manicamp, you would consume them in post-horses
alone!”

“No, no, make yourself easy on that score.”

“Pardon me. Why, it is fifteen leagues from this place to Etampes?”

“Fourteen.”

“Well! fourteen be it; fourteen leagues makes seven posts; at twenty sous
the post, seven livres; seven livres the courier, fourteen;
as many for coming back, twenty-eight! as much for bed and supper, that
makes sixty livres this complaisance would cost.”

Manicamp stretched himself like a serpent in his bed, and fixing his two
great eyes upon Malicorne, “You are right,” said he; “I could not return
before to-morrow;” and he took the twenty pistoles.

“Now, then, be off!”

“Well, as I cannot be back before to-morrow, we have time.”

“Time for what?”

“Time to play.”

“What do you wish to play with?”

“Your twenty pistoles, pardieu!”

“No; you always win.”

“I will wager them, then.”

“Against what?”

“Against twenty others.”

“And what shall be the object of the wager?”

“This. We have said it was fourteen leagues to Etampes.”

“Yes.”

“And fourteen leagues back?”

“Doubtless.”

“Well; for these twenty-eight leagues you cannot allow less than fourteen
hours?”

“That is agreed.”

“One hour to find the Comte de Guiche.”

“Go on.”

“And an hour to persuade him to write a letter to Monsieur.”

“Just so.”

“Sixteen hours in all?”

“You reckon as well as M. Colbert.”

“It is now twelve o’clock.”

“Half-past.”

“Hein!—you have a handsome watch!”

“What were you saying?” said Malicorne, putting his watch quickly back
into his fob.

“Ah! true; I was offering to lay you twenty pistoles against these you
have lent me, that you will have the Comte de Guiche’s letter in—”

“How soon?”

“In eight hours.”

“Have you a winged horse, then?”

“That is no matter. Will you bet?”

“I shall have the comte’s letter in eight hours?”

“Yes.”

“In hand?”

“In hand.”

“Well, be it so; I lay,” said Malicorne, curious enough to know how this
seller of clothes would get through.

“Is it agreed?”

“It is.”

“Pass me the pen, ink, and paper.”

“Here they are.”

“Thank you.”

Manicamp raised himself with a sigh, and leaning on his left elbow, in his
best hand, traced the following lines:—

“Good for an order for a place of maid of honor to Madame, which M. le
Comte de Guiche will take upon him to obtain at sight. DE MANICAMP.”

This painful task accomplished, he laid himself down in bed again.

“Well!” asked Malicorne, “what does this mean?”

“That means that if you are in a hurry to have the letter from the Comte
de Guiche for Monsieur, I have won my wager.”

“How the devil is that?”

“That is transparent enough, I think; you take that paper.”

“Well?”

“And you set out instead of me.”

“Ah!”

“You put your horses to their best speed.”

“Good!”

“In six hours you will be at Etampes; in seven hours you have the letter
from the comte, and I shall have won my wager without stirring from my
bed, which suits me and you too, at the same time, I am very sure.”

“Decidedly, Manicamp, you are a great man.”

“Hein! I know that.”

“I am to start then for Etampes?”

“Directly.”

“I am to go to the Comte de Guiche with this order?”

“He will give you a similar one for Monsieur.”

“Monsieur will approve?”

“Instantly.”

“And I shall have my brevet?”

“You will.”

“Ah!”

“Well, I hope I behave genteely?”

“Adorably.”

“Thank you.”

“You do as you please, then, with the Comte de Guiche, Manicamp?”

“Except making money of him—everything?”

“Diable! the exception is annoying; but then, if instead of asking
him for money, you were to ask—”

“What?”

“Something important.”

“What do you call important?”

“Well! suppose one of your friends asked you to render him a service?”

“I would not render it to him.”

“Selfish fellow!”

“Or at least I would ask him what service he would render me in exchange.”

“Ah! that, perhaps, is fair. Well, that friend speaks to you.”

“What, you, Malicorne?”

“Yes; I.”

“Ah! ah! you are rich, then?”

“I have still fifty pistoles left.”

“Exactly the sum I want. Where are those fifty pistoles?”

“Here,” said Malicorne, slapping his pocket.

“Then speak, my friend; what do you want?”

Malicorne took up the pen, ink, and paper again, and presented them all to
Manicamp. “Write!” said he.

“Dictate!”

“An order for a place in the household of Monsieur.”

“Oh!” said Manicamp, laying down the pen, “a place in the household of
Monsieur for fifty pistoles?”

“You mistook me, my friend; you did not hear plainly.”

“What did you say, then?”

“I said five hundred.”

“And the five hundred?”

“Here they are.”

Manicamp devoured the rouleau with his eyes; but this time Malicorne held
it at a distance.

“Eh! what do you say to that? Five hundred pistoles.”

“I say it is for nothing, my friend,” said Manicamp, taking up the pen
again, “and you exhaust my credit. Dictate.”

Malicorne continued:

“Which my friend the Comte de Guiche will obtain for my friend Malicorne.”

“That’s it,” said Manicamp.

“Pardon me, you have forgotten to sign.”

“Ah! that is true. The five hundred pistoles?”

“Here are two hundred and fifty of them.”

“And the other two hundred and fifty?”

“When I am in possession of my place.”

Manicamp made a face.

“In that case give me the recommendation back again.”

“What to do?”

“To add two words to it.”

“Two words?”

“Yes; two words only.”

“What are they?”

“In haste.”

Malicorne returned the recommendation; Manicamp added the words.

“Good,” said Malicorne, taking back the paper.

Manicamp began to count out the pistoles.

“There want twenty,” said he.

“How so?”

“The twenty I have won.”

“In what way?”

“By laying that you would have the letter from the Comte de Guiche in
eight hours.”

“Ah! that’s fair,” and he gave him the twenty pistoles.

Manicamp began to scoop up his gold by handfuls, and pour it in cascades
upon his bed.

“This second place,” murmured Malicorne, whilst drying his paper, “which,
at first glance appears to cost me more than the first, but—” He
stopped, took up the pen in his turn, and wrote to Montalais:—

“MADEMOISELLE,—Announce to your friend that her commission will not
be long before it arrives; I am setting out to get it signed: that will be
twenty-eight leagues I shall have gone for the love of you.”

Then with his sardonic smile, taking up the interrupted sentence:—“This
place,” said he, “at first glance, appears to have cost more than the
first; but—the benefit will be, I hope, in proportion with the
expense, and Mademoiselle de la Valliere will bring me back more than
Mademoiselle de Montalais, or else,—or else my name is not
Malicorne. Farewell, Manicamp,” and he left the room.

Chapter VI. The Courtyard of the Hotel Grammont.

On Malicorne’s arrival at Orleans, he was informed that the Comte de
Guiche had just set out for Paris. Malicorne rested himself for a couple
of hours, and then prepared to continue his journey. He reached Paris
during the night, and alighted at a small hotel, where, in his previous
journeys to the capital, he had been accustomed to put up, and at eight
o’clock the next morning presented himself at the Hotel Grammont.
Malicorne arrived just in time, for the Comte de Guiche was on the point
of taking leave of Monsieur before setting out for Le Havre, where the
principal members of the French nobility had gone to await Madame’s
arrival from England. Malicorne pronounced the name of Manicamp, and was
immediately admitted. He found the Comte de Guiche in the courtyard of the
Hotel Grammont, inspecting his horses, which his trainers and equerries
were passing in review before him. The count, in the presence of his
tradespeople and of his servants, was engaged in praising or blaming, as
the case seemed to deserve, the appointments, horses, and harness that
were being submitted to him; when, in the midst of this important
occupation, the name of Manicamp was announced.

“Manicamp!” he exclaimed; “let him enter by all means.” And he advanced a
few steps toward the door.

Malicorne slipped through the half-open door, and looking at the Comte de
Guiche, who was surprised to see a face he did not recognize, instead of
the one he expected, said: “Forgive me, monsieur le comte, but I believe a
mistake has been made. M. Manicamp himself was announced to you, instead
of which it is only an envoy from him.”

“Ah!” exclaimed De Guiche, coldly; “and what do you bring me?”

“A letter, monsieur le comte.” Malicorne handed him the first document,
and narrowly watched the count’s face, who, as he read it, began to laugh.

“What!” he exclaimed, “another maid of honor? Are all the maids of honor
in France, then, under his protection?”

Malicorne bowed.

“Why does he not come himself?” he inquired.

“He is confined to his bed.”

“The deuce! he has no money then, I suppose,” said De Guiche, shrugging
his shoulders. “What does he do with his money?”

Malicorne made a movement, to indicate that upon this subject he was as
ignorant as the count himself. “Why does he not make use of his credit,
then?” continued De Guiche.

“With regard to that, I think—”

“What?”

“That Manicamp has credit with no one but yourself, monsieur le comte!”

“He will not be at Le Havre, then?” Whereupon Malicorne made another
movement.

“But every one will be there.”

“I trust, monsieur le comte, that he will not neglect so excellent an
opportunity.”

“He should be at Paris by this time.”

“He will take the direct road perhaps to make up for lost time.”

“Where is he now?”

“At Orleans.”

“Monsieur,” said De Guiche, “you seem to me a man of very good taste.”

Malicorne was wearing some of Manicamp’s old-new clothes. He bowed in
return, saying, “You do me a very great honor, monsieur le comte.”

“Whom have I the pleasure of addressing?”

“My name is Malicorne, monsieur.”

“M. de Malicorne, what do you think of these pistol-holsters?”

Malicorne was a man of great readiness and immediately understood the
position of affairs. Besides, the “de” which had been prefixed to his
name, raised him to the rank of the person with whom he was conversing. He
looked at the holsters with the air of a connoisseur and said, without
hesitation: “Somewhat heavy, monsieur.”

“You see,” said De Guiche to the saddler, “this gentleman, who understands
these matters well, thinks the holsters heavy, a complaint I had already
made.” The saddler was full of excuses.

“What do you think,” asked De Guiche, “of this horse, which I have just
purchased?”

“To look at it, it seems perfect, monsieur le comte; but I must mount it
before I give you my opinion.”

“Do so, M. de Malicorne, and ride him round the court two or three times.”

The courtyard of the hotel was so arranged, that whenever there was any
occasion for it, it could be used as a riding-school. Malicorne, with
perfect ease, arranged the bridle and snaffle-reins, placed his left hand
on the horse’s mane, and, with his foot in the stirrup, raised himself and
seated himself in the saddle. At first, he made the horse walk the whole
circuit of the court-yard at a foot-pace; next at a trot; lastly at a
gallop. He then drew up close to the count, dismounted, and threw the
bridle to a groom standing by. “Well,” said the count, “what do you think
of it, M. de Malicorne?”

“This horse, monsieur le comte, is of the Mecklenburg breed. In looking
whether the bit suited his mouth, I saw that he was rising seven, the very
age when the training of a horse intended for a charger should commence.
The forehand is light. A horse which holds its head high, it is said,
never tires his rider’s hand. The withers are rather low. The drooping of
the hind-quarters would almost make me doubt the purity of its German
breed, and I think there is English blood in him. He stands well on his
legs, but he trots high, and may cut himself, which requires attention to
be paid to his shoeing. He is tractable; and as I made him turn round and
change his feet, I found him quick and ready in doing so.”

“Well said, M. de Malicorne,” exclaimed the comte; “you are a judge of
horses, I perceive;” then, turning towards him again, he continued, “you
are most becomingly dressed, M. de Malicorne. That is not a provincial
cut, I presume. Such a style of dress is not to be met with at Tours or
Orleans.”

“No, monsieur le comte; my clothes were made at Paris.”

“There is no doubt about that. But let us resume our own affair. Manicamp
wishes for the appointment of a second maid of honor.”

“You perceive what he has written, monsieur le comte.”

“For whom was the first appointment?”

Malicorne felt the color rise in his face as he answered hurriedly.

“A charming maid of honor, Mademoiselle de Montalais.”

“Ah, ah! you are acquainted with her?”

“We are affianced, or nearly so.”

“That is quite another thing, then; a thousand compliments,” exclaimed De
Guiche, upon whose lips a courtier’s jest was already fitting, but to whom
the word “affianced,” addressed by Malicorne with respect to Mademoiselle
de Montalais, recalled the respect due to women.

“And for whom is the second appointment destined?” asked De Guiche; “is it
for anyone to whom Manicamp may happen to be affianced? In that case I
pity her, poor girl! for she will have a sad fellow for a husband.”

“No, monsieur le comte; the second appointment is for Mademoiselle de la
Baume le Blanc de la Valliere.”

“Unknown,” said De Guiche.

“Unknown? yes, monsieur,” said Malicorne, smiling in his turn.

“Very good. I will speak to Monsieur about it. By the by, she is of gentle
birth?”

“She belongs to a very good family and is maid of honor to Madame.”

“That’s well. Will you accompany me to Monsieur?”

“Most certainly, if I may be permitted the honor.”

“Have you your carriage?”

“No; I came here on horseback.”

“Dressed as you are?”

“No, monsieur; I posted from Orleans, and I changed my traveling suit for
the one I have on, in order to present myself to you.”

“True, you already told me you had come from Orleans;” saying which he
crumpled Manicamp’s letter in his hand, and thrust it in his pocket.

“I beg your pardon,” said Malicorne, timidly; “but I do not think you have
read all.”

“Not read all, do you say?”

“No; there were two letters in the same envelope.”

“Oh! are you sure?”

“Quite sure.”

“Let us look, then,” said the count, as he opened the letter again.

“Ah! you are right,” he said opening the paper which he had not yet read.

“I suspected it,” he continued—“another application for an
appointment under Monsieur. This Manicamp is a regular vampire:—he
is carrying on a trade in it.”

“No, monsieur le comte, he wishes to make a present of it.”

“To whom?”

“To myself, monsieur.”

“Why did you not say so at once, my dear M. Mauvaisecorne?”

“Malicorne, monsieur le comte.”

“Forgive me; it is that Latin that bothers me—that terrible mine of
etymologies. Why the deuce are young men of family taught Latin? Mala
and mauvaise—you understand it is the same thing. You will
forgive me, I trust, M. de Malicorne.”

“Your kindness affects me much, monsieur: but it is a reason why I should
make you acquainted with one circumstance without any delay.”

“What is it?”

“That I was not born a gentleman. I am not without courage, and not
altogether deficient in ability; but my name is Malicorne simply.”

“You appear to me, monsieur!” exclaimed the count, looking at the astute
face of his companion, “to be a most agreeable man. Your face pleases me,
M. Malicorne, and you must possess some indisputably excellent qualities
to have pleased that egotistical Manicamp. Be candid and tell me whether
you are not some saint descended upon the earth.”

“Why so?”

“For the simple reason that he makes you a present of anything. Did you
not say that he intended to make you a present of some appointment in the
king’s household?”

“I beg your pardon, count; but, if I succeed in obtaining the appointment,
you, and not he, will have bestowed it on me.”

“Besides he will not have given it to you for nothing, I suppose. Stay, I
have it;—there is a Malicorne at Orleans who lends money to the
prince.”

“I think that must be my father, monsieur.”

“Ah! the prince has the father, and that terrible dragon of a Manicamp has
the son. Take care, monsieur, I know him. He will fleece you completely.”

“The only difference is, that I lend without interest,” said Malicorne,
smiling.

“I was correct in saying you were either a saint or very much resembled
one. M. Malicorne, you shall have the post you want, or I will forfeit my
name.”

“Ah! monsieur le comte, what a debt of gratitude shall I not owe you?”
said Malicorne, transported.

“Let us go to the prince, my dear M. Malicorne.” And De Guiche proceeded
toward the door, desiring Malicorne to follow him. At the very moment they
were about to cross the threshold, a young man appeared on the other side.
He was from twenty-four to twenty-five years of age, of pale complexion,
bright eyes and brown hair and eyebrows. “Good-day,” said he, suddenly,
almost pushing De Guiche back into the courtyard again.

“Is that you, De Wardes?—What! and booted, spurred and whip in hand,
too?”

“The most befitting costume for a man about to set off for Le Havre. There
will be no one left in Paris to-morrow.” And hereupon he saluted Malicorne
with great ceremony, whose handsome dress gave him the appearance of a
prince.

“M. Malicorne,” said De Guiche to his friend. De Wardes bowed.

“M. de Wardes,” said Guiche to Malicorne, who bowed in return. “By the by,
De Wardes,” continued De Guiche, “you who are so well acquainted with
these matters, can you tell us, probably, what appointments are still
vacant at the court; or rather in the prince’s household?”

“In the prince’s household,” said De Wardes looking up with an air of
consideration, “let me see—the appointment of the master of the
horse is vacant, I believe.”

“Oh,” said Malicorne, “there is no question of such a post as that,
monsieur; my ambition is not nearly so exalted.”

De Wardes had a more penetrating observation than De Guiche, and fathomed
Malicorne immediately. “The fact is,” he said, looking at him from head to
foot, “a man must be either a duke or a peer to fill that post.”

“All I solicit,” said Malicorne, “is a very humble appointment; I am of
little importance, and I do not rank myself above my position.”

“M. Malicorne, whom you see here,” said De Guiche to De Wardes, “is a very
excellent fellow, whose only misfortune is that of not being of gentle
birth. As far as I am concerned, you know, I attach little value to those
who have but gentle birth to boast of.”

“Assuredly,” said De Wardes; “but will you allow me to remark, my dear
count, that, without rank of some sort, one can hardly hope to belong to
his royal highness’s household?”

“You are right,” said the count, “court etiquette is absolute. The devil!—we
never so much as gave it a thought.”

“The remedy is found easily enough,” exclaimed De Wardes; “you can be
created a gentleman. His Eminence, the Cardinal Mazarin, did nothing else
from morning till night.”

“Hush, hush, De Wardes,” said the count; “no jests of that kind; it ill
becomes us to turn such matters into ridicule. Letters of nobility, it is
true, are purchasable; but that is a sufficient misfortune without the
nobles themselves laughing at it.”

“Upon my word, De Guiche, you’re quite a Puritan, as the English say.”

At this moment the Vicomte de Bragelonne was announced by one of the
servants in the courtyard, in precisely the same manner as he would have
done in a room.

Bragelonne approached the group of young men, and saluted them with that
quiet and serious manner peculiar to him. His salutation was principally
addressed to De Wardes, with whom he was unacquainted, and whose features,
on his perceiving Raoul, had assumed a strange sternness of expression. “I
have come, De Guiche,” he said, “to ask your companionship. We set off for
Le Havre, I presume.”

“This is admirable—delightful. We shall have a most enjoyable
journey. M. Malicorne, M. Bragelonne—ah! M. de Wardes, let me
present you.” The young men saluted each other in a restrained manner.
Their very natures seemed, from the beginning, disposed to take exception
to each other. De Wardes was pliant, subtle, full of dissimulation; Raoul
was calm, grave, and upright. “Decide between us—between De Wardes
and myself, Raoul.”

“Upon what subject?”

“Upon the subject of noble birth.”

“Who can be better informed on that subject than a De Gramont?”

“No compliments; it is your opinion I ask.”

“At least, inform me of the subject under discussion.”

“De Wardes asserts that the distribution of titles is abused; I, on the
contrary, maintain that a title is useless to the man on whom it is
bestowed.”

“And you are correct,” said Bragelonne, quietly.

“But, monsieur le vicomte,” interrupted De Wardes, with a kind of
obstinacy, “I affirm that it is I who am correct.”

“What was your opinion, monsieur?”

“I was saying that everything is done in France at the present moment, to
humiliate men of family.”

“And by whom?”

“By the king himself. He surrounds himself with people who cannot show
four quarterings.”

“Nonsense,” said De Guiche, “where could you possibly have seen that, De
Wardes?”

“One example will suffice,” he returned, directing his look fully upon
Raoul.

“State it then.”

“Do you know who has just been nominated captain-general of the
musketeers?—an appointment more valuable than a peerage; for it
gives precedence over all the marechals of France.”

Raoul’s color mounted in his face; for he saw the object De Wardes had in
view. “No; who has been appointed? In any case it must have been very
recently, for the appointment was vacant eight days ago; a proof of which
is, that the king refused Monsieur, who solicited the post for one of his
proteges.”

“Well, the king refused it to Monsieur’s protege, in order to
bestow it upon the Chevalier d’Artagnan, a younger brother of some Gascon
family, who has been trailing his sword in the ante-chambers during the
last thirty years.”

“Forgive me if I interrupt you,” said Raoul, darting a glance full of
severity at De Wardes; “but you give me the impression of being
unacquainted with the gentleman of whom you are speaking.”

“I not acquainted with M. d’Artagnan? Can you tell me, monsieur, who does
not know him?”

“Those who do know him, monsieur,” replied Raoul, with still
greater calmness and sternness of manner, “are in the habit of saying,
that if he is not as good a gentleman as the king—which is not his
fault—he is the equal of all the kings of the earth in courage and
loyalty. Such is my opinion, monsieur; and I thank heaven I have known M.
d’Artagnan from my birth.”

De Wardes was about to reply, when De Guiche interrupted him.

Chapter VII. The Portrait of Madame.

The discussion was becoming full of bitterness. De Guiche perfectly
understood the whole matter, for there was in Bragelonne’s face a look
instinctively hostile, while in that of De Wardes there was something like
a determination to offend. Without inquiring into the different feelings
which actuated his two friends, De Guiche resolved to ward off the blow
which he felt was on the point of being dealt by one of them, and perhaps
by both. “Gentlemen,” he said, “we must take our leave of each other, I
must pay a visit to Monsieur. You, De Wardes, will accompany me to the
Louvre, and you, Raoul, will remain here master of the house; and as all
that is done here is under your advice, you will bestow the last glance
upon my preparations for departure.”

Raoul, with the air of one who neither seeks nor fears a quarrel, bowed
his head in token of assent, and seated himself upon a bench in the sun.
“That is well,” said De Guiche, “remain where you are, Raoul, and tell
them to show you the two horses I have just purchased; you will give me
your opinion, for I only bought them on condition that you ratified the
purchase. By the by, I have to beg your pardon for having omitted to
inquire after the Comte de la Fere.” While pronouncing these latter words,
he closely observed De Wardes, in order to perceive what effect the name
of Raoul’s father would produce upon him. “I thank you,” answered the
young man, “the count is very well.” A gleam of deep hatred passed into De
Wardes’s eyes. De Guiche, who appeared not to notice the foreboding
expression, went up to Raoul, and grasping him by the hand, said,—“It
is agreed, then, Bragelonne, is it not, that you will rejoin us in the
courtyard of the Palais Royal?” He then signed to De Wardes to follow him,
who had been engaged in balancing himself first on one foot, then on the
other. “We are going,” said he, “come, M. Malicorne.” This name made Raoul
start; for it seemed that he had already heard it pronounced before, but
he could not remember on what occasion. While trying to recall it
half-dreamily, yet half-irritated at his conversation with De Wardes, the
three young men set out on their way towards the Palais Royal, where
Monsieur was residing. Malicorne learned two things; the first, that the
young men had something to say to each other; and the second, that he
ought not to walk in the same line with them; and therefore he walked
behind. “Are you mad?” said De Guiche to his companion, as soon as they
had left the Hotel de Grammont; “you attack M. d’Artagnan, and that, too,
before Raoul.”

“Well,” said De Wardes, “what then?”

“What do you mean by ‘what then?’”

“Certainly, is there any prohibition against attacking M. d’Artagnan?”

“But you know very well that M. d’Artagnan was one of those celebrated and
terrible four men who were called the musketeers.”

“That they may be; but I do not perceive why, on that account, I should be
forbidden to hate M. d’Artagnan.”

“What cause has he given you?”

“Me! personally, none.”

“Why hate him, therefore?”

“Ask my dead father that question.”

“Really, my dear De Wardes, you surprise me. M. d’Artagnan is not one to
leave unsettled any enmity he may have to arrange, without
completely clearing his account. Your father, I have heard, carried
matters with a high hand. Moreover, there are no enmities so bitter that
they cannot be washed away by blood, by a good sword-thrust loyally
given.”

“Listen to me, my dear De Guiche, this inveterate dislike existed between
my father and M. d’Artagnan, and when I was quite a child, he acquainted
me with the reason for it, and, as forming part of my inheritance, I
regard it as a particular legacy bestowed upon me.”

“And does this hatred concern M. d’Artagnan alone?”

“As for that, M. d’Artagnan was so intimately associated with his three
friends, that some portion of the full measure of my hatred falls to their
lot, and that hatred is of such a nature, whenever the opportunity occurs,
they shall have no occasion to complain of their allowance.”

De Guiche had kept his eyes fixed on De Wardes, and shuddered at the
bitter manner in which the young man smiled. Something like a presentiment
flashed across his mind; he knew that the time had passed away for grands
coups entre gentilshommes; but that the feeling of hatred treasured up
in the mind, instead of being diffused abroad, was still hatred all the
same; that a smile was sometimes as full of meaning as a threat; and, in a
word, that to the fathers who had hated with their hearts and fought with
their arms, would now succeed the sons, who would indeed hate with their
hearts, but would no longer combat their enemies save by means of intrigue
or treachery. As, therefore, it certainly was not Raoul whom he could
suspect either of intrigue or treachery, it was on Raoul’s account that De
Guiche trembled. However, while these gloomy forebodings cast a shade of
anxiety over De Guiche’s countenance, De Wardes had resumed the entire
mastery over himself.

“At all events,” he observed, “I have no personal ill-will towards M. de
Bragelonne; I do not know him even.”

“In any case,” said De Guiche, with a certain amount of severity in his
tone of voice, “do not forget one circumstance, that Raoul is my most
intimate friend;” a remark at which De Wardes bowed.

The conversation terminated there, although De Guiche tried his utmost to
draw out his secret from him; but, doubtless, De Wardes had determined to
say nothing further, and he remained impenetrable. De Guiche therefore
promised himself a more satisfactory result with Raoul. In the meantime
they had reached the Palais Royal, which was surrounded by a crowd of
lookers-on. The household belonging to Monsieur awaited his command to
mount their horses, in order to form part of the escort of the
ambassadors, to whom had been intrusted the care of bringing the young
princess to Paris. The brilliant display of horses, arms, and rich
liveries, afforded some compensation in those times, thanks to the kindly
feelings of the people, and to the traditions of deep devotion to their
sovereigns, for the enormous expenses charged upon the taxes. Mazarin had
said: “Let them sing, provided they pay;” while Louis XIV.‘s remark was,
“Let them look.” Sight had replaced the voice; the people could still look
but they were no longer allowed to sing. De Guiche left De Wardes and
Malicorne at the bottom of the grand staircase, while he himself, who
shared the favor and good graces of Monsieur with the Chevalier de
Lorraine, who always smiled at him most affectionately, though he could
not endure him, went straight to the prince’s apartments, whom he found
engaged in admiring himself in the glass, and rouging his face. In a
corner of the cabinet, the Chevalier de Lorraine was extended full length
upon some cushions, having just had his long hair curled, with which he
was playing in the same manner a woman would have done. The prince turned
round as the count entered, and perceiving who it was, said: “Ah! is that
you, De Guiche; come here and tell me the truth.”

“You know, my lord, it is one of my defects to speak the truth.”

“You will hardly believe, De Guiche, how that wicked chevalier has annoyed
me.”

The chevalier shrugged his shoulders.

“Why, he pretends,” continued the prince, “that Mademoiselle Henrietta is
better looking as a woman than I am as a man.”

“Do not be in a hurry, Guiche,” exclaimed the prince, “you have plenty of
time; look at me attentively, and try to recollect Madame. Besides, her
portrait is here. Look at it.” And he held out to him a miniature of the
finest possible execution. De Guiche took it, and looked at it for a long
time attentively.

“Upon my honor, my lord, this is indeed a most lovely face.”

“But look at me, count, look at me,” said the prince, endeavoring to
direct upon himself the attention of the count, who was completely
absorbed in contemplation of the portrait.

“It is wonderful,” murmured Guiche.

“Really one would imagine you had never seen the young lady before.”

“It is true, my lord, I have seen her but it was five years ago; there is
a great difference between a child twelve years old, and a girl of
seventeen.”

“Well, what is your opinion?”

“My opinion is that the portrait must be flattering, my lord.”

“Of that,” said the prince triumphantly, “there can be no doubt; but let
us suppose that it is not, what would your opinion be?”

“My lord, that your highness is exceedingly happy to have so charming a
bride.”

The Chevalier de Lorraine burst out laughing. The prince understood how
severe towards himself this opinion of the Comte de Guiche was, and he
looked somewhat displeased, saying, “My friends are not over indulgent.”
De Guiche looked at the portrait again, and, after lengthened
contemplation, returned it with apparent unwillingness, saying, “Most
decidedly, my lord, I should rather prefer to look ten times at your
highness, than to look at Madame once again.” It seemed as if the
chevalier had detected some mystery in these words, which were
incomprehensible to the prince, for he exclaimed: “Very well, get married
yourself.” Monsieur continued painting himself, and when he had finished,
looked at the portrait again once more, turned to admire himself in the
glass, and smiled, and no doubt was satisfied with the comparison. “You
are very kind to have come,” he said to Guiche, “I feared you would leave
without bidding me adieu.”

“Your highness knows me too well to believe me capable of so great a
disrespect.”

“Besides, I suppose you have something to ask from me before leaving
Paris?”

“Your highness has indeed guessed correctly, for I have a request to
make.”

“Very good, what is it?”

The Chevalier de Lorraine immediately displayed the greatest attention,
for he regarded every favor conferred upon another as a robbery committed
against himself. And, as Guiche hesitated, the prince said: “If it be
money, nothing could be more fortunate, for I am in funds; the
superintendent of the finances has sent me 500,000 pistoles.”

“I thank your highness; but is not an affair of money.”

“What is it, then? Tell me.”

“The appointment of a maid of honor.”

“Oh! oh! Guiche, what a protector you have become of young ladies,” said
the prince, “you never speak of any one else now.”

The Chevalier de Lorraine smiled, for he knew very well that nothing
displeased the prince more than to show any interest in ladies. “My lord,”
said the comte, “it is not I who am directly interested in the lady of
whom I have just spoken; I am acting on behalf of one of my friends.”

“Ah! that is different; what is the name of the young lady in whom your
friend is so interested?”

“Mlle. de la Baume le Blanc de la Valliere; she is already maid of honor
to the dowager princess.”

“Why, she is lame,” said the Chevalier de Lorraine, stretching himself on
his cushions.

“Lame,” repeated the prince, “and Madame to have her constantly before her
eyes? Most certainly not; it may be dangerous for her when in an
interesting condition.”

The Chevalier de Lorraine burst out laughing.

“Chevalier,” said Guiche, “your conduct is ungenerous; while I am
soliciting a favor, you do me all the mischief you can.”

“Forgive me, comte,” said the Chevalier de Lorraine, somewhat uneasy at
the tone in which Guiche had made his remark, “but I had no intention of
doing so, and I begin to believe that I have mistaken one young lady for
another.”

“There is no doubt of it, monsieur; and I do not hesitate to declare that
such is the case.”

“Do you attach much importance to it, Guiche?” inquired the prince.

“I do, my lord.”

“Well, you shall have it; but ask me for no more appointments, for there
are none to give away.”

“Ah!” exclaimed the chevalier, “midday already, that is the hour fixed for
the departure.”

“You dismiss me, monsieur?” inquired Guiche.

“Really, count, you treat me very ill to-day,” replied the chevalier.

“For heaven’s sake, count, for heaven’s sake, chevalier,” said Monsieur,
“do you not see how you are distressing me?”

“Your highness’s signature?” said Guiche.

“Take a blank appointment from that drawer, and give it to me.” Guiche
handed the prince the document indicated, and at the same time presented
him with a pen already dipped in ink; whereupon the prince signed. “Here,”
he said, returning him the appointment, “but I give it on one condition.”

“Name it.”

“That you make friends with the chevalier.”

“Willingly,” said Guiche. And he held out his hand to the chevalier with
an indifference amounting to contempt.

“Adieu, count,” said the chevalier, without seeming in any way to have
noticed the count’s slight; “adieu, and bring us back a princess who will
not talk with her own portrait too much.”

“Yes, set off and lose no time. By the by, who will accompany you?”

“Bragelonne and De Wardes.”

“Both excellent and fearless companions.”

“Too fearless,” said the chevalier; “endeavor to bring them both back,
count.”

“A bad heart, bad!” murmured De Guiche; “he scents mischief everywhere,
and sooner than anything else.” And taking leave of the prince, he quitted
the apartment. As soon as he reached the vestibule, he waved in the air
the paper which the prince had signed. Malicorne hurried forward, and
received it, trembling with delight. When, however, he held in his hand,
Guiche observed that he still awaited something further.

“Patience, monsieur,” he said; “the Chevalier de Lorraine was there, and I
feared an utter failure if I asked too much at once. Wait until I return.
Adieu.”

“Adieu, monsieur le comte; a thousand thanks,” said Malicorne.

“Send Manicamp to me. By the way, monsieur, is it true that Mlle. de la
Valliere is lame?” As he said this, he noticed that Bragelonne, who had
just at that moment entered the courtyard, turned suddenly pale. The poor
lover had heard the remark, which, however, was not the case with
Malicorne, for he was already beyond the reach of the count’s voice.

“Why is Louise’s name spoken of here,” said Raoul to himself; “oh! let not
De Wardes, who stands smiling yonder, even say a word about her in my
presence.”

“Now, gentlemen,” exclaimed the Comte de Guiche, “prepare to start.”

At this moment the prince, who had complete his toilette, appeared at the
window, and was immediately saluted by the acclamations of all who
composed the escort, and ten minutes afterwards, banners, scarfs, and
feathers were fluttering and waving in the air, as the cavalcade galloped
away.

Chapter VIII. Le Havre.

This brilliant and animated company, the members of which were inspired by
various feelings, arrived at Le Havre four days after their departure from
Paris. It was about five o’clock in the afternoon, and no intelligence had
yet been received of Madame. They were soon engaged in quest of
apartments; but the greatest confusion immediately ensued among the
masters, and violent quarrels among their attendants. In the midst of this
disorder, the Comte de Guiche fancied he recognized Manicamp. It was,
indeed, Manicamp himself; but as Malicorne had taken possession of his
very best costume, he had not been able to get any other than a suit of
violet velvet, trimmed with silver. Guiche recognized him as much by his
dress as by his features, for he had very frequently seen Manicamp in his
violet suit, which was his last resource. Manicamp presented himself to
the count under an arch of torches, which set in a blaze, rather than
illuminated, the gate by which Le Havre is entered, and which is situated
close to the tower of Francis I. The count, remarking the woe-begone
expression of Manicamp’s face, could not resist laughing. “Well, my poor
Manicamp,” he exclaimed, “how violet you look; are you in mourning?”

“Yes,” replied Manicamp; “I am in mourning.”

“For whom, or for what?”

“For my blue-and-gold suit, which has disappeared, and in the place of
which I could find nothing but this; and I was even obliged to economize
from compulsion, in order to get possession of it.”

“Indeed?”

“It is singular you should be astonished at that, since you leave me
without any money.”

“At all events, here you are, and that is the principal thing.”

“By the most horrible roads.”

“Where are you lodging?”

“Lodging?”

“Yes!”

“I am not lodging anywhere.”

De Guiche began to laugh. “Well,” said he, “where do you intend to lodge?”

“In the same place you do.”

“But I don’t know, myself.”

“What do you mean by saying you don’t know?”

“Certainly, how is it likely I should know where I should stay?”

“Have you not retained an hotel?”

“I?”

“Yes, you or the prince.”

“Neither of us has thought of it. Le Havre is of considerable size, I
suppose; and provided I can get a stable for a dozen horses, and a
suitable house in a good quarter—”

“Certainly, there are some very excellent houses.”

“Well then—”

“But not for us.”

“What do you mean by saying not for us?—for whom, then?”

“For the English, of course.”

“For the English?”

“Yes; the houses are all taken.”

“By whom?”

“By the Duke of Buckingham.”

“I beg your pardon?” said Guiche, whose attention this name had awakened.

“Yes, by the Duke of Buckingham. His Grace was preceded by a courier, who
arrived here three days ago, and immediately retained all the houses fit
for habitation the town possesses.”

“Come, come, Manicamp, let us understand each other.”

“Well, what I have told you is clear enough, it seems to me.”

“But surely Buckingham does not occupy the whole of Le Havre?”

“He certainly does not occupy it, since he has not yet arrived; but, once
disembarked, he will occupy it.”

“Oh! oh!”

“It is quite clear you are not acquainted with the English; they have a
perfect rage for monopolizing everything.”

“That may be; but a man who has the whole of one house, is satisfied with
it, and does not require two.”

“Yes, but two men?”

“Be it so; for two men, two houses, or four or six, or ten, if you like;
but there are a hundred houses at Le Havre.”

“Yes, and all the hundred are let.”

“Impossible!”

“What an obstinate fellow you are. I tell you Buckingham has hired all the
houses surrounding the one which the queen dowager of England and the
princess her daughter will inhabit.”

“He is singular enough, indeed,” said De Wardes, caressing his horse’s
neck.

“Such is the case, however, monsieur.”

“You are quite sure of it, Monsieur de Manicamp?” and as he put this
question, he looked slyly at De Guiche, as though to interrogate him upon
the degree of confidence to be placed in his friend’s state of mind.
During this discussion the night had closed in, and the torches, pages,
attendants, squires, horses, and carriages, blocked up the gate and the
open place; the torches were reflected in the channel, which the rising
tide was gradually filling, while on the other side of the jetty might be
noticed groups of curious lookers-on, consisting of sailors and
townspeople, who seemed anxious to miss nothing of the spectacle. Amidst
all this hesitation of purpose, Bragelonne, as though a perfect stranger
to the scene, remained on his horse somewhat in the rear of Guiche, and
watched the rays of light reflected on the water, inhaling with rapture
the sea breezes, and listening to the waves which noisily broke upon the
shore and on the beach, tossing the spray into the air with a noise that
echoed in the distance. “But,” exclaimed De Guiche, “what is Buckingham’s
motive for providing such a supply of lodgings?”

“Yes, yes,” said De Wardes; “what reason has he?”

“A very excellent one,” replied Manicamp.

“You know what it is, then?”

“I fancy I do.”

“Tell us, then.”

“Bend your head down towards me.”

“What! may it not be spoken except in private?”

“You shall judge of that yourself.”

“Very well.” De Guiche bent down.

“Love,” said Manicamp.

“I do not understand you at all.”

“Say rather, you cannot understand me yet.”

“Explain yourself.”

“Very well; it is quite certain, count, that his royal highness will be
the most unfortunate of husbands.”

“What do you mean?”

“The Duke of Buckingham—”

“It is a name of ill omen to the princes of the house of France.”

“And so the duke is madly in love with Madame, so the rumor runs, and will
have no one approach her but himself.”

De Guiche colored. “Thank you, thank you,” said he to Manicamp, grasping
his hand. Then, recovering himself, added, “Whatever you do, Manicamp, be
careful that this project of Buckingham’s is not made known to any
Frenchman here; for, if so, many a sword would be unsheathed in this
country that does not fear English steel.”

“But after all,” said Manicamp, “I have had no satisfactory proof given me
of the love in question, and it may be no more than an idle tale.”

“No, no,” said De Guiche, “it must be the truth;” and despite his command
over himself, he clenched his teeth.

“Well,” said Manicamp, “after all, what does it matter to you? What does
it matter to me whether the prince is to be what the late king was?
Buckingham the father for the queen, Buckingham the son for the princess.”

“Manicamp! Manicamp!”

“It is a fact, or at least, everybody says so.”

“Silence!” cried the count.

“But why, silence?” said De Wardes; “it is a highly creditable
circumstance for the French nation. Are not you of my opinion, Monsieur de
Bragelonne?”

“To what circumstance do you allude?” inquired De Bragelonne with an
abstracted air.

“That the English should render homage to the beauty of our queens and our
princesses.”

“Forgive me, but I have not been paying attention to what has passed; will
you oblige me by explaining.”

“There is no doubt it was necessary that Buckingham the father should come
to Paris in order that his majesty, King Louis XIII., should perceive that
his wife was one of the most beautiful women of the French court; and it
seems necessary, at the present time, that Buckingham the son should
consecrate, by the devotion of his worship, the beauty of a princess who
has French blood in her veins. The fact of having inspired a passion on
the other side of the Channel will henceforth confer a title to beauty on
this.”

“Sir,” replied De Bragelonne, “I do not like to hear such matters treated
so lightly. Gentlemen like ourselves should be careful guardians of the
honor of our queens and our princesses. If we jest at them, what will our
servants do?”

“How am I to understand that?” said De Wardes, whose ears tingled at the
remark.

“In any way you chose, monsieur,” replied De Bragelonne, coldly.

“Bragelonne, Bragelonne,” murmured De Guiche.

“M. de Wardes,” exclaimed Manicamp, noticing that the young man had
spurred his horse close to the side of Raoul.

“Gentlemen, gentlemen,” said De Guiche, “do not set such an example in
public, in the street too. De Wardes, you are wrong.”

“Wrong; in what way, may I ask you?”

“You are wrong, monsieur, because you are always speaking ill of someone
or something,” replied Raoul, with undisturbed composure.

“Be indulgent, Raoul,” said De Guiche, in an undertone.

“Pray do not think of fighting, gentlemen!” said Manicamp, “before you
have rested yourselves; for in that case you will not be able to do much.”

“Come,” said De Guiche, “forward, gentlemen!” and breaking through the
horses and attendants, he cleared the way for himself towards the center
of the square, through the crowd, followed by the whole cavalcade. A large
gateway looking out upon a courtyard was open; Guiche entered the
courtyard, and Bragelonne, De Wardes, Manicamp, and three or four other
gentlemen, followed him. A sort of council of war was held, and the means
to be employed for saving the dignity of the embassy were deliberated
upon. Bragelonne was of the opinion that the right of priority should be
respected, while De Wardes suggested that the town should be sacked. This
latter proposition appearing to Manicamp rather premature, he proposed
instead that they should first rest themselves. This was the wisest thing
to do, but, unhappily, to follow his advice, two things were wanting;
namely, a house and beds. De Guiche reflected for awhile, and then said
aloud, “Let him who loves me, follow me!”

“The attendants also?” inquired a page who had approached the group.

“Every one,” exclaimed the impetuous young man. “Manicamp, show us the way
to the house destined for her royal highness’s residence.”

Without in any way divining the count’s project, his friends followed him,
accompanied by a crowd of people, whose acclamations and delight seemed a
happy omen for the success of that project with which they were yet
unacquainted. The wind was blowing strongly from the harbor, and moaning
in fitful gusts.

Chapter IX. At Sea.

The following day was somewhat calmer, although the gale still continued.
The sun had, however, risen through a bank of orange clouds, tingeing with
its cheerful rays the crests of the black waves. Watch was impatiently
kept from the different look-outs. Towards eleven o’clock in the morning a
ship, with sails full set, was signalled as in view; two others followed
at the distance of about half a knot. They approached like arrows shot
from the bow of a skillful archer; and yet the sea ran so high that their
speed was as nothing compared to the rolling of the billows in which the
vessels were plunging first in one direction and then in another. The
English fleet was soon recognized by the line of the ships, and by the
color of their pennants; the one which had the princess on board and
carried the admiral’s flag preceded the others.

The rumor now spread that the princess was arriving. The whole French
court ran to the harbor, while the quays and jetties were soon covered by
crowds of people. Two hours afterwards, the other vessels had overtaken
the flagship, and the three, not venturing perhaps to enter the narrow
entrance of the harbor, cast anchor between Le Havre and La Heve. When the
maneuver had been completed, the vessel which bore the admiral saluted
France by twelve discharges of cannon, which were returned, discharge for
discharge, from Fort Francis I. Immediately afterwards a hundred boats
were launched; they were covered with the richest stuffs, and destined for
the conveyance of the different members of the French nobility towards the
vessels at anchor. But when it was observed that even inside the harbor
the boats were tossed to and fro, and that beyond the jetty the waves rose
mountains high, dashing upon the shore with a terrible uproar, it was
readily believed that not one of those frail boats would be able with
safety to reach a fourth part of the distance between the shore and the
vessels at anchor. A pilot-boat, however, notwithstanding the wind and the
sea, was getting ready to leave the harbor, for the purpose of placing
itself at the admiral’s disposal.

De Guiche, who had been looking among the different boats for one stronger
than the others, which might offer a chance of reaching the English
vessels, perceiving the pilot-boat getting ready to start, said to Raoul:
“Do you not think, Raoul, that intelligent and vigorous men, as we are,
ought to be ashamed to retreat before the brute strength of wind and
waves?”

“That is precisely the very reflection I was silently making to myself,”
replied Bragelonne.

“Shall we get into that boat, then, and push off? Will you come, De
Wardes?”

“Take care, or you will get drowned,” said Manicamp.

“And for no purpose,” said De Wardes, “for with the wind in your teeth, as
it will be, you will never reach the vessels.”

“You refuse, then?”

“Assuredly I do; I would willingly risk and lose my life in an encounter
against men,” he said, glancing at Bragelonne, “but as to fighting with
oars against waves, I have no taste for that.”

“And for myself,” said Manicamp, “even were I to succeed in reaching the
ships, I should not be indifferent to the loss of the only good dress
which I have left,—salt water would spoil it.”

“You, then, refuse also?” exclaimed De Guiche.

“Decidedly I do; I beg you to understand that most distinctly.”

“But,” exclaimed De Guiche, “look, De Wardes—look, Manicamp—look
yonder, the princesses are looking at us from the poop of the admiral’s
vessel.”

“An additional reason, my dear fellow, why we should not make ourselves
ridiculous by being drowned while they are looking on.”

“Is that your last word, Manicamp?”

“Yes.”

“And then yours, De Wardes?”

“Yes.”

“Then I go alone.”

“Not so,” said Raoul, “for I shall accompany you; I thought it was
understood I should do so.”

The fact is, that Raoul, uninfluenced by devotion, measuring the risk they
run, saw how imminent the danger was, but he willingly allowed himself to
accept a peril which De Wardes had declined.

The boat was about to set off when De Guiche called to the pilot. “Stay,”
said he: “we want two places in your boat;” and wrapping five or six
pistoles in paper, he threw them from the quay into the boat.

“It seems you are not afraid of salt water, young gentlemen.”

“We are afraid of nothing,” replied De Guiche.

“Come along, then.”

The pilot approached the side of the boat, and the two young men, one
after the other, with equal vivacity, jumped into the boat. “Courage, my
men,” said De Guiche; “I have twenty pistoles left in this purse, and as
soon as we reach the admiral’s vessel they shall be yours.” The sailors
bent themselves to their oars, and the boat bounded over the crest of the
waves. The interest taken in this hazardous expedition was universal; the
whole population of Le Havre hurried towards the jetties and every look
was directed towards the little bark; at one moment it flew suspended on
the crest of the foaming waves, then suddenly glided downwards towards the
bottom of a raging abyss, where it seemed utterly lost. At the expiration
of an hour’s struggling with the waves, it reached the spot where the
admiral’s vessel was anchored, and from the side of which two boats had
already been dispatched towards their aid. Upon the quarter-deck of the
flagship, sheltered by a canopy of velvet and ermine, which was suspended
by stout supports, Henriette, the queen dowager, and the young princess—with
the admiral, the Duke of Norfolk, standing beside them—watched with
alarm this slender bark, at one moment tossed to the heavens, and the next
buried beneath the waves, and against whose dark sail the noble figures of
the two French gentlemen stood forth in relief like two luminous
apparitions. The crew, leaning against the bulwarks and clinging to the
shrouds, cheered the courage of the two daring young men, the skill of the
pilot, and the strength of the sailors. They were received at the side of
the vessel by a shout of triumph. The Duke of Norfolk, a handsome young
man, from twenty-six to twenty-eight years of age, advanced to meet them.
De Guiche and Bragelonne lightly mounted the ladder on the starboard side,
and, conducted by the Duke of Norfolk, who resumed his place near them,
they approached to offer their homage to the princess. Respect, and yet
more, a certain apprehension, for which he could not account, had hitherto
restrained the Comte de Guiche from looking at Madame attentively, who,
however, had observed him immediately, and had asked her mother, “Is not
that Monsieur in the boat yonder?” Madame Henriette, who knew Monsieur
better than her daughter did, smiled at the mistake her vanity had led her
into, and had answered, “No; it is only M. de Guiche, his favorite.” The
princess, at this reply, was constrained to check an instinctive
tenderness of feeling which the courage displayed by the count had
awakened. At the very moment the princess had put this question to her
mother, De Guiche had, at last, summoned courage to raise his eyes towards
her and could compare the original with the portrait he had so lately
seen. No sooner had he remarked her pale face, her eyes so full of
animation, her beautiful nut-brown hair, her expressive lips, and her
every gesture, which, while betokening royal descent, seemed to thank and
to encourage him at one and the same time, than he was, for a moment, so
overcome, that, had it not been for Raoul, on whose arm he leant, he would
have fallen. His friend’s amazed look, and the encouraging gesture of the
queen, restored Guiche to his self-possession. In a few words he explained
his mission, explained in what way he had become envoy of his royal
highness; and saluted, according to their rank and the reception they gave
him, the admiral and several of the English noblemen who were grouped
around the princess.

Raoul was then presented, and was most graciously received; the share that
the Comte de la Fere had had in the restoration of Charles II. was known
to all; and, more than that, it was the comte who had been charged with
the negotiation of the marriage, by means of which the granddaughter of
Henry IV. was now returning to France. Raoul spoke English perfectly, and
constituted himself his friend’s interpreter with the young English
noblemen, who were indifferently acquainted with the French language. At
this moment, a young man came forward, of extremely handsome features, and
whose dress and arms were remarkable for their extravagance of material.
He approached the princesses, who were engaged in conversation with the
Duke of Norfolk, and, in a voice which ill concealed his impatience, said,
“It is now time to disembark, your royal highness.” The younger of the
princesses rose from her seat at this remark, and was about to take the
hand which the young nobleman extended to her, with an eagerness which
arose from a variety of motives, when the admiral intervened between them,
observing: “A moment, if you please, my lord; it is not possible for
ladies to disembark just now, the sea is too rough; it is probable the
wind may abate before sunset, and the landing will not be effected,
therefore, until this evening.”

“Allow me to observe, my lord,” said Buckingham, with an irritation of
manner which he did not seek to disguise, “you detain these ladies, and
you have no right to do so. One of them, unhappily, now belongs to France,
and you perceive that France claims them by the voice of her ambassadors;”
and at the same moment he indicated Raoul and Guiche, whom he saluted.

“I cannot suppose that these gentlemen intend to expose the lives of their
royal highnesses,” replied the admiral.

“These gentlemen,” retorted Buckingham, “arrived here safely,
notwithstanding the wind; allow me to believe that the danger will not be
greater for their royal highnesses when the wind will be in their favor.”

“These envoys have shown how great their courage is,” said the admiral.
“You may have observed that there was a great number of persons on shore
who did not venture to accompany them. Moreover, the desire which
they had to show their respect with the least possible delay to Madame and
her illustrious mother, induced them to brave the sea, which is very
tempestuous to-day, even for sailors. These gentlemen, however, whom I
recommend as an example for my officers to follow, can hardly be so for
these ladies.”

Madame glanced at the Comte de Guiche, and perceived that his face was
burning with confusion. This look had escaped Buckingham, who had eyes for
nothing but Norfolk, of whom he was evidently very jealous; he seemed
anxious to remove the princesses from the deck of a vessel where the
admiral reigned supreme. “In that case,” returned Buckingham, “I appeal to
Madame herself.”

“And I, my lord,” retorted the admiral, “I appeal to my own conscience,
and to my own sense of responsibility. I have undertaken to convey Madame
safe and sound to France, and I shall keep my promise.”

“But, sir—” continued Buckingham.

“My lord, permit me to remind you that I command here.”

“Are you aware what you are saying, my lord?” replied Buckingham,
haughtily.

“Perfectly so; I therefore repeat it: I alone command here, all yield
obedience to me; the sea and the winds, the ships and men too.” This
remark was made in a dignified and authoritative manner. Raoul observed
its effect upon Buckingham, who trembled with anger from head to foot, and
leaned against one of the poles of the tent to prevent himself falling;
his eyes became suffused with blood, and the hand which he did not need
for his support wandered towards the hilt of his sword.

“My lord,” said the queen, “permit me to observe that I agree in every
particular with the Duke of Norfolk; if the heavens, instead of being
clouded as they are at the present moment, were perfectly serene and
propitious, we can still afford to bestow a few hours upon the officer who
has conducted us so successfully, and with such extreme attention, to the
French coast, where he is to take leave of us.”

Buckingham, instead of replying, seemed to seek counsel from the
expression of Madame’s face. She, however, half-concealed beneath the
thick curtains of the velvet and gold which sheltered her, had not
listened to the discussion, having been occupied in watching the Comte de
Guiche, who was conversing with Raoul. This was a fresh misfortune for
Buckingham, who fancied he perceived in Madame Henrietta’s look a deeper
feeling than that of curiosity. He withdrew, almost tottering in his gait,
and nearly stumbled against the mainmast of the ship.

“The duke has not acquired a steady footing yet,” said the queen-mother,
in French, “and that may possibly be his reason for wishing to find
himself on firm land again.”

The young man overheard this remark, turned suddenly pale, and, letting
his hands fall in great discouragement by his side, drew aside, mingling
in one sigh his old affection and his new hatreds. The admiral, however,
without taking any further notice of the duke’s ill-humor, led the
princesses into the quarter-deck cabin, where dinner had been served with
a magnificence worthy in every respect of his guests. The admiral seated
himself at the right hand of the princess, and placed the Comte de Guiche
on her left. This was the place Buckingham usually occupied; and when he
entered the cabin, how profound was his unhappiness to see himself
banished by etiquette from the presence of his sovereign, to a position
inferior to that which, by rank, he was entitled to. De Guiche, on the
other hand, paler still perhaps from happiness, than his rival was from
anger, seated himself tremblingly next to the princess, whose silken robe,
as it lightly touched him, caused a tremor of mingled regret and happiness
to pass through his whole frame. The repast finished, Buckingham darted
forward to hand Madame Henrietta from the table; but this time it was De
Guiche’s turn to give the duke a lesson. “Have the goodness, my lord, from
this moment,” said he, “not to interpose between her royal highness and
myself. From this moment, indeed, her royal highness belongs to France,
and when she deigns to honor me by touching my hand it is the hand of
Monsieur, the brother of the king of France, she touches.”

And saying this, he presented his hand to Madame Henrietta with such
marked deference, and at the same time with a nobleness of mien so
intrepid, that a murmur of admiration rose from the English, whilst a
groan of despair escaped from Buckingham’s lips. Raoul, who loved,
comprehended it all. He fixed upon his friend one of those profound looks
which a bosom friend or mother can alone extend, either as protector or
guardian, over the one who is about to stray from the right path. Towards
two o’clock in the afternoon the sun shone forth anew, the wind subsided,
the sea became smooth as a crystal mirror, and the fog, which had shrouded
the coast, disappeared like a veil withdrawn before it. The smiling hills
of France appeared in full view, with their numerous white houses rendered
more conspicuous by the bright green of the trees or the clear blue sky.

Chapter X. The Tents.

The admiral, as we have seen, was determined to pay no further attention
to Buckingham’s threatening glances and fits of passion. In fact, from the
moment they quitted England, he had gradually accustomed himself to his
behavior. De Guiche had not yet in any way remarked the animosity which
appeared to influence that young nobleman against him, but he felt,
instinctively, that there could be no sympathy between himself and the
favorite of Charles II. The queen-mother, with greater experience and
calmer judgment, perceived the exact position of affairs, and, as she
discerned its danger, was prepared to meet it, whenever the proper moment
should arrive. Quiet had been everywhere restored, except in Buckingham’s
heart; he, in his impatience, addressed himself to the princess, in a low
tone of voice: “For Heaven’s sake, madame, I implore you to hasten your
disembarkation. Do you not perceive how that insolent Duke of Norfolk is
killing me with his attentions and devotions to you?”

Henrietta heard this remark; she smiled, and without turning her head
towards him, but giving only to the tone of her voice that inflection of
gentle reproach, and languid impertinence, which women and princesses so
well know how to assume, she murmured, “I have already hinted, my lord,
that you must have taken leave of your senses.”

Not a single detail escaped Raoul’s attention; he heard both Buckingham’s
entreaty and the princess’s reply; he remarked Buckingham retire, heard
his deep sigh, and saw him pass a hand over his face. He understood
everything, and trembled as he reflected on the position of affairs, and
the state of the minds of those about him. At last the admiral, with
studied delay, gave the last orders for the departure of the boats.
Buckingham heard the directions given with such an exhibition of delight
that a stranger would really imagine the young man’s reason was affected.
As the Duke of Norfolk gave his commands, a large boat or barge, decked
with flags, and capable of holding about twenty rowers and fifteen
passengers, was slowly lowered from the side of the admiral’s vessel. The
barge was carpeted with velvet and decorated with coverings embroidered
with the arms of England, and with garlands of flowers; for, at that time,
ornamentation was by no means forgotten in these political pageants. No
sooner was this really royal boat afloat, and the rowers with oars
uplifted, awaiting, like soldiers presenting arms, the embarkation of the
princess, than Buckingham ran forward to the ladder in order to take his
place. His progress was, however, arrested by the queen. “My lord,” she
said, “it is hardly becoming that you should allow my daughter and myself
to land without having previously ascertained that our apartments are
properly prepared. I beg your lordship to be good enough to precede us
ashore, and to give directions that everything be in proper order on our
arrival.”

This was a fresh disappointment for the duke, and, still more so, since it
was so unexpected. He hesitated, colored violently, but could not reply.
He had thought he might be able to keep near Madame during the passage to
the shore, and, by this means, to enjoy to the very last moment the brief
period fortune still reserved for him. The order, however, was explicit;
and the admiral, who heard it given, immediately called out, “Launch the
ship’s gig.” His directions were executed with that celerity which
distinguishes every maneuver on board a man-of-war.

Buckingham, in utter hopelessness, cast a look of despair at the princess,
of supplication towards the queen, and directed a glance full of anger
towards the admiral. The princess pretended not to notice him, while the
queen turned aside her head, and the admiral laughed outright, at the
sound of which Buckingham seemed ready to spring upon him. The
queen-mother rose, and with a tone of authority said, “Pray set off, sir.”

The young duke hesitated, looked around him, and with a last effort,
half-choked by contending emotions, said, “And you, gentlemen, M. de
Guiche and M. de Bragelonne, do not you accompany me?”

De Guiche bowed and said, “Both M. de Bragelonne and myself await her
majesty’s orders; whatever the commands she imposes on us, we shall obey
them.” Saying this, he looked towards the princess, who cast down her
eyes.

“Your grace will remember,” said the queen, “that M. de Guiche is here to
represent Monsieur; it is he who will do the honors of France, as you have
done those of England; his presence cannot be dispensed with; besides, we
owe him this slight favor for the courage he displayed in venturing to
seek us in such a terrible stress of weather.”

Buckingham opened his lips, as if he were about to speak, but, whether
thoughts or expressions failed him, not a syllable escaped them, and
turning away, as though out of his mind, he leapt from the vessel into the
boat. The sailors were just in time to catch hold of him to steady
themselves; for his weight and the rebound had almost upset the boat.

“His grace cannot be in his senses,” said the admiral aloud to Raoul.

“I am uneasy on the Duke’s account,” replied Bragelonne.

While the boat was advancing towards the shore, the duke kept his eyes
immovably fixed on the admiral’s ship, like a miser torn away from his
coffers, or a mother separated from her child, about to be lead away to
death. No one, however, acknowledged his signals, his frowns, or his
pitiful gestures. In very anguish of mind, he sank down in the boat,
burying his hands in his hair, whilst the boat, impelled by the exertions
of the merry sailors, flew over the waves. On his arrival he was in such a
state of apathy, that, had he not been received at the harbor by the
messenger whom he had directed to precede him, he would hardly have had
strength to ask his way. Having once, however, reached the house which had
been set apart for him, he shut himself up, like Achilles in his tent. The
barge bearing the princess quitted the admiral’s vessel at the very moment
Buckingham landed. It was followed by another boat filled with officers,
courtiers, and zealous friends. Great numbers of the inhabitants of Le
Havre, having embarked in fishing-cobles and boats of every description,
set off to meet the royal barge. The cannon from the forts fired salutes,
which were returned by the flagship and the two other vessels, and the
flashes from the open mouths of the cannon floated in white fumes over the
waves, and disappeared in the clear blue sky.

The princess landed at the decorated quay. Bands of gay music greeted her
arrival, and accompanied her every step she took. During the time she was
passing through the center of town, and treading beneath her delicate feet
the richest carpets and the gayest flowers, which had been strewn upon the
ground, De Guiche and Raoul, escaping from their English friends, hurried
through the town and hastened rapidly towards the place intended for the
residence of Madame.

“Let us hurry forward,” said Raoul to De Guiche, “for if I read
Buckingham’s character aright, he will create some disturbance, when he
learns the result of our deliberations of yesterday.”

“Never fear,” said De Guiche, “De Wardes is there, who is determination
itself, while Manicamp is the very personification of the artless
gentleness.”

De Guiche was not, however, the less diligent on that account, and five
minutes afterwards they were within sight of the Hotel de Ville. The first
thing which struck them was the number of people assembled in the square.
“Excellent,” said De Guiche; “our apartments, I see, are prepared.”

In fact, in front of the Hotel de Ville, upon the wide open space before
it, eight tents had been raised, surmounted by the flags of France and
England united. The hotel was surrounded by tents, as by a girdle of
variegated colors; ten pages and a dozen mounted troopers, for an escort,
mounted guard before the tents. It had a singularly curious effect, almost
fairy-like in its appearance. These tents had been constructed during the
night-time. Fitted up, within and without, with the richest materials that
De Guiche had been able to procure in Le Havre, they completely encircled
the Hotel de Ville. The only passage which led to the steps of the hotel,
and which was not inclosed by the silken barricade, was guarded by two
tents, resembling two pavilions, the doorways of both of which opened
towards the entrance. These two tents were destined for De Guiche and
Raoul; in whose absence they were intended to be occupied, that of De
Guiche by De Wardes, and that of Raoul by Manicamp. Surrounding these two
tents, and the six others, a hundred officers, gentlemen, and pages,
dazzling in their display of silk and gold, thronged like bees buzzing
about a hive. Every one of them, their swords by their sides, was ready to
obey the slightest sign either of De Guiche or Bragelonne, the leaders of
the embassy.

At the very moment the two young men appeared at the end of one of the
streets leading to the square, they perceived, crossing the square at full
gallop, a young man on horseback, whose costume was of surprising
richness. He pushed hastily thorough the crowd of curious lookers-on, and,
at the sight of these unexpected erections, uttered a cry of anger and
dismay. It was Buckingham, who had awakened from his stupor, in order to
adorn himself with a costume perfectly dazzling from its beauty, and to
await the arrival of the princess and the queen-mother at the Hotel de
Ville. At the entrance to the tents, the soldiers barred his passage, and
his further progress was arrested. Buckingham, hopelessly infuriated,
raised his whip; but his arm was seized by a couple of officers. Of the
two guardians of the tent, only one was there. De Wardes was in the
interior of the Hotel de Ville, engaging in attending to the execution of
some orders by De Guiche. At the noise made by Buckingham, Manicamp, who
was indolently reclining upon the cushions at the doorway of one of the
tents, rose with his usual indifference, and, perceiving that the
disturbance continued, made his appearance from underneath the curtains.
“What is the matter?” he said, in a gentle tone of voice, “and who is
making this disturbance?”

It so happened, that, at the moment he began to speak, silence had just
been restored, and, although his voice was very soft and gentle in its
touch, every one heard his question. Buckingham turned round, and looked
at the tall thin figure, and the listless expression of countenance of his
questioner. Probably the personal appearance of Manicamp, who was dressed
very plainly, did not inspire him with much respect, for he replied
disdainfully, “Who may you be, monsieur?”

Manicamp, leaning on the arm of a gigantic trooper, as firm as the pillar
of a cathedral, replied in his usual tranquil tone of voice,—“And you,
monsieur?”

“I, monsieur, am the Duke of Buckingham; I have hired all the houses which
surround the Hotel de Ville, where I have business to transact; and as
these houses are let, they belong to me, and, as I hired them in order to
preserve the right of free access to the Hotel de Ville, you are not
justified in preventing me passing to it.”

“But who prevents you passing, monsieur?” inquired Manicamp.

“Your sentinels.”

“Because you wish to pass on horseback, and orders have been given to let
only persons on foot pass.”

“No one has any right to give orders here, except myself,” said
Buckingham.

“On what grounds?” inquired Manicamp, with his soft tone. “Will you do me
the favor to explain this enigma to me?”

“Because, as I have already told you, I have hired all the houses looking
on the square.”

“We are very well aware of that, since nothing but the square itself has
been left for us.”

“You are mistaken, monsieur; the square belongs to me, as well as the
houses in it.”

“Forgive me, monsieur, but you are mistaken there. In our country,
we say, the highway belongs to the king, therefore this square is his
majesty’s; and, consequently, as we are the king’s ambassadors, the square
belongs to us.”

“I have already asked you who you are, monsieur,” exclaimed Buckingham,
exasperated at the coolness of his interlocutor.

“My name is Manicamp,” replied the young man, in a voice whose tones were
as harmonious and sweet as the notes of an Aeolian harp.

Buckingham shrugged his shoulders contemptuously, and said, “When I hired
these houses which surround the Hotel de Ville, the square was unoccupied;
these barracks obstruct my sight; I hereby order them to be removed.”

A hoarse and angry murmur ran through the crowd of listeners at these
words. De Guiche arrived at this moment; he pushed through the crowd which
separated him from Buckingham, and, followed by Raoul, arrived on the
scene of action from one side, just as De Wardes came up from the other.
“Pardon me, my lord; but if you have any complaint to make, have the
goodness to address it to me, inasmuch as it was I who supplied the plans
for the construction of these tents.”

“Moreover, I would beg you to observe, monsieur, that the term ‘barrack’
is a highly objectionable one!” added Manicamp, graciously.

“You were saying, monsieur—” continued De Guiche.

“I was saying, monsieur le comte,” resumed Buckingham, in a tone of anger
more marked than ever, although in some measure moderated by the presence
of an equal, “I was saying that it is impossible these tents can remain
where they are.”

“Impossible!” exclaimed De Guiche, “and why?”

“Because I object to them.”

A movement of impatience escaped De Guiche, but a warning glance from
Raoul restrained him.

“You should the less object to them, monsieur, on account of the abuse of
priority you have permitted yourself to exercise.”

“Abuse!”

“Most assuredly. You commission a messenger, who hires in your name the
whole of the town of Le Havre, without considering the members of the
French court, who would be sure to arrive here to meet Madame. Your Grace
will admit that this is hardly friendly conduct in the representative of a
friendly nation.”

“The right of possession belongs to him who is first on the ground.”

“Not in France, monsieur.”

“Why not in France?”

“Because France is a country where politeness is observed.”

“Which means?” exclaimed Buckingham, in so violent a manner that those who
were present drew back, expecting an immediate collision.

“Which means, monsieur,” replied De Guiche, now rather pale, “that I
caused these tents to be raised as habitations for myself and my friends,
as a shelter for the ambassadors of France, as the only place of refuge
which your exactions have left us in the town; and that I and those who
are with me, shall remain in them, at least, until an authority more
powerful, and more supreme, than your own shall dismiss me from them.”

“In other words, until we are ejected, as the lawyers say,” observed
Manicamp, blandly.

“I know an authority, monsieur, which I trust is such as you will
respect,” said Buckingham, placing his hand on his sword.

At this moment, and as the goddess of Discord, inflaming all minds, was
about to direct their swords against each other, Raoul gently placed his
hand on Buckingham’s shoulder. “One word, my lord,” he said.

“My right, my right, first of all,” exclaimed the fiery young man.

“It is precisely upon that point I wish to have the honor of addressing a
word to you.”

“Very well, monsieur, but let your remarks be brief.”

“One question is all I ask; you can hardly expect me to be briefer.”

“Speak, monsieur, I am listening.”

“Are you, or is the Duke of Orleans, going to marry the granddaughter of
Henry IV.?”

“What do you mean?” exclaimed Buckingham, retreating a few steps,
bewildered.

“Have the goodness to answer me,” persisted Raoul tranquilly.

“Do you mean to ridicule me, monsieur?” inquired Buckingham.

“Your question is a sufficient answer for me. You admit, then, that it is
not you who are going to marry the princess?”

“You know it perfectly well, monsieur, I should imagine.”

“I beg your pardon, but your conduct has been such as to leave it not
altogether certain.”

“Proceed, monsieur, what do you mean to convey?”

Raoul approached the duke. “Are you aware, my lord,” he said, lowering his
voice, “that your extravagances very much resemble the excesses of
jealousy? These jealous fits, with respect to any woman, are not becoming
in one who is neither her lover nor her husband; and I am sure you will
admit that my remark applies with still greater force, when the lady in
question is a princess of the blood royal!”

“Be careful, my lord,” replied Bragelonne, coldly, “for it is you who
insult her. A little while since, when on board the admiral’s ship, you
wearied the queen, and exhausted the admiral’s patience. I was observing,
my lord; and, at first, I concluded you were not in possession of your
senses, but I have since surmised the real significance of your madness.”

“Monsieur!” exclaimed Buckingham.

“One moment more, for I have yet another word to add. I trust I am the
only one of my companions who has guessed it.”

“Are you aware, monsieur,” said Buckingham, trembling with mingled
feelings of anger and uneasiness, “are you aware that you are holding
language towards me which requires to be checked?”

“Weigh your words well, my lord,” said Raoul, haughtily; “my nature is not
such that its vivacities need checking; whilst you, on the contrary, are
descended from a race whose passions are suspected by all true Frenchmen;
I repeat, therefore, for the second time, be careful!”

“Careful of what, may I ask? Do you presume to threaten me?”

“I am the son of the Comte de la Fere, my lord, and I never threaten,
because I strike first. Therefore, understand me well, the threat that I
hold out to you is this—”

Buckingham clenched his hands, but Raoul continued, as though he had not
observed the gesture. “At the very first word, beyond the respect and
deference due to her royal highness, which you permit yourself to use
towards her,—be patient my lord, for I am perfectly so.”

“You?”

“Undoubtedly. So long as Madame remained on English territory, I held my
peace; but from the very moment she stepped on French ground, and now that
we have received her in the name of the prince, I warn you, that at the
first mark of disrespect which you, in your insane attachment, exhibit
towards the royal house of France, I shall have one of two courses to
follow;—either I declare, in the presence of every one, the madness
with which you are now affected, and I get you ignominiously ordered back
to England; or if you prefer it, I will run my dagger through your throat
in the presence of all here. This second alternative seems to me the least
disagreeable, and I think I shall hold to it.”

Buckingham had become paler than the lace collar around his neck. “M. de
Bragelonne,” he said, “is it, indeed, a gentleman who is speaking to me?”

“Yes; only the gentleman is speaking to a madman. Get cured, my lord, and
he will hold quite another language to you.”

“But, M. de Bragelonne,” murmured the duke, in a voice, half-choked, and
putting his hand to his neck,—“Do you not see I am choking?”

“If your death were to take place at this moment, my lord,” replied Raoul,
with unruffled composure, “I should, indeed, regard it as a great
happiness, for this circumstance would prevent all kinds of evil remarks;
not alone about yourself, but also about those illustrious persons whom
your devotion is compromising in so absurd a manner.”

“You are right, you are right,” said the young man, almost beside himself.
“Yes, yes; better to die, than to suffer as I do at this moment.” And he
grasped a beautiful dagger, the handle of which was inlaid with precious
stones; and which he half drew from his breast.

Raoul thrust his hand aside. “Be careful what you do,” he said; “if you do
not kill yourself, you commit a ridiculous action; and if you were to kill
yourself, you sprinkle blood upon the nuptial robe of the princess of
England.”

Buckingham remained a minute gasping for breath; during this interval, his
lips quivered, his fingers worked convulsively, and his eyes wandered, as
though in delirium. Then suddenly, he said, “M. de Bragelonne, I know
nowhere a nobler mind than yours; you are, indeed, a worthy son of the
most perfect gentleman that ever lived. Keep your tents.” And he threw his
arms round Raoul’s neck. All who were present, astounded at this conduct,
which was the very reverse of what was expected, considering the violence
of the one adversary and the determination of the other, began immediately
to clap their hands, and a thousand cheers and joyful shouts arose from
all sides. De Guiche, in his turn, embraced Buckingham somewhat against
his inclination; but, at all events, he did embrace him. This was the
signal for French and English to do the same; and they who, until that
moment, had looked at each other with restless uncertainty, fraternized on
the spot. In the meantime, the procession of the princess arrived, and had
it not been for Bragelonne, two armies would have been engaged together in
conflict, and blood would have been shed upon the flowers with which the
ground was covered. At the appearance, however, of the banners borne at
the head of the procession, complete order was restored.

Chapter XI. Night.

Concord returned to its place amidst the tents. English and French rivaled
each other in their devotion and courteous attention to the illustrious
travelers. The English forwarded to the French baskets of flowers, of
which they had made a plentiful provision to greet the arrival of the
young princess; the French in return invited the English to a supper,
which was to be given the next day. Congratulations were poured in upon
the princess everywhere during her journey. From the respect paid her on
all sides, she seemed like a queen; and from the adoration with which she
was treated by two or three; she appeared an object of worship. The
queen-mother gave the French the most affectionate reception. France was
her native country, and she had suffered too much unhappiness in England
for England to have made her forget France. She taught her daughter, then,
by her own affection for it, that love for a country where they had both
been hospitably received, and where a brilliant future opened before them.
After the public entry was over, and the spectators in the streets had
partially dispersed, and the sound of the music and cheering of the crowd
could be heard only in the distance; when the night had closed in,
wrapping with its star-covered mantle the sea, the harbor, the town, and
surrounding country, De Guiche, still excited by the great events of the
day, returned to his tent, and seated himself upon one of the stools with
so profound an expression of distress that Bragelonne kept his eyes fixed
upon him, until he heard him sigh, and then he approached him. The count
had thrown himself back on his seat, leaning his shoulders against the
partition of the tent, and remained thus, his face buried in his hands,
with heaving chest and restless limbs.

“You are suffering?” asked Raoul.

“Cruelly.”

“Bodily, I suppose?”

“Yes; bodily.”

“This has indeed been a harassing day,” continued the young man, his eyes
fixed upon his friend.

“Yes; a night’s rest will probably restore me.”

“Shall I leave you?”

“No; I wish to talk to you.”

“You shall not speak to me, Guiche, until you have first answered my
questions.”

“Proceed then.”

“You will be frank with me?”

“I always am.”

“Can you imagine why Buckingham has been so violent?”

“I suspect.”

“Because he is in love with Madame, is it not?”

“One could almost swear to it, to observe him.”

“You are mistaken; there is nothing of the kind.”

“It is you who are mistaken, Raoul; I have read his distress in his eyes,
in his every gesture and action the whole day.”

“Now, inform me, count,” said Raoul, fixing a penetrating look upon him,
“what happened to render you so clear-sighted.”

Guiche hesitated for a moment, and then answered, “Self-love, I suppose.”

“Self-love is a pedantic word, Guiche.”

“What do you mean?”

“I mean that, generally, you are less out of spirits than seems to be the
case this evening.”

“I am fatigued.”

“Listen to me, Guiche; we have been campaigners together; we have been on
horseback for eighteen hours at a time, and our horses dying from
exhaustion, or hunger, have fallen beneath us, and yet we have laughed at
our mishaps. Believe me, it is not fatigue that saddens you to-night.”

“It is annoyance, then.”

“What annoyance?”

“That of this evening.”

“The mad conduct of the Duke of Buckingham, do you mean?”

“Of course; is it not vexations for us, the representatives of our
sovereign master, to witness the devotion of an Englishman to our future
mistress, the second lady in point of rank in the kingdom?”

“Yes, you are right; but I do not think any danger is to be apprehended
from Buckingham.”

“No; still he is intrusive. Did he not, on his arrival here, almost
succeed in creating a disturbance between the English and ourselves; and,
had it not been for you, for your admirable presence, for your singular
decision of character, swords would have been drawn in the very streets of
the town.”

“You observe, however, that he has changed his tactics.”

“Yes, certainly; but this is the very thing that amazes me so much. You
spoke to him in a low tone of voice, what did you say to him? You think he
loves her; you admit that such a passion does not give way readily. He
does not love her, then!” De Guiche pronounced the latter with so marked
an expression that Raoul raised his head. The noble character of the young
man’s countenance expressed a displeasure which could easily be read.

“What I said to him, count,” replied Raoul, “I will repeat to you. Listen
to me. I said, ‘You are regarding with wistful feelings, and most
injurious desire, the sister of your prince,—her to whom you are not
affianced, who is not, who can never be anything to you; you are outraging
those who, like ourselves, have come to seek a young lady to escort her to
her husband.’”

“You spoke to him in that manner?” asked Guiche, coloring.

“In those very terms; I even added more. ‘How would you regard us,’ I
said, ‘if you were to perceive among us a man mad enough, disloyal enough,
to entertain other than sentiments of the most perfect respect for a
princess who is the destined wife of our master?’”

These words were so applicable to De Guiche that he turned pale, and,
overcome by a sudden agitation, was barely able to stretch out one hand
mechanically towards Raoul, as he covered his eyes and face with the
other.

“But,” continued Raoul, not interrupted by this movement of his friend,
“Heaven be praised, the French, who are pronounced to be thoughtless and
indiscreet, reckless, even, are capable of bringing a calm and sound
judgment to bear on matters of such high importance. I added even more,
for I said, ‘Learn, my lord, that we gentlemen of France devote ourselves
to our sovereigns by sacrificing them our affections, as well as our
fortunes and our lives; and whenever it may chance to happen that the
tempter suggests one of those vile thoughts that set the heart on fire, we
extinguish the flame, even if it has to be done by shedding our blood for
the purpose. Thus it is that the honor of three is saved: our country’s,
our master’s, and our own. It is thus that we act, your Grace; it is thus
that every man of honor ought to act.’ In this manner, my dear Guiche,”
continued Bragelonne, “I addressed the Duke of Buckingham; and he admitted
I was right, and resigned himself unresistingly to my arguments.”

De Guiche, who had hitherto sat leaning forward while Raoul was speaking,
drew himself up, his eyes glancing proudly; he seized Raoul’s hand, his
face, which had been as cold as ice, seemed on fire. “And you spoke
magnificently,” he said, in a half-choked voice; “you are indeed a friend,
Raoul. But now, I entreat you, leave me to myself.”

“Do you wish it?”

“Yes; I need repose. Many things have agitated me to-day, both in mind and
body; when you return to-morrow I shall no longer be the same man.”

“I leave you, then,” said Raoul, as he withdrew. The count advanced a step
towards his friend, and pressed him warmly in his arms. But in this
friendly pressure Raoul could detect the nervous agitation of a great
internal conflict.

The night was clear, starlit, and splendid; the tempest had passed away,
and the sweet influences of the evening had restored life, peace and
security everywhere. A few fleecy clouds were floating in the heavens, and
indicated from their appearance a continuance of beautiful weather,
tempered by a gentle breeze from the east. Upon the large square in front
of the hotel, the shadows of the tents, intersected by the golden
moonbeams, formed as it were a huge mosaic of jet and yellow flagstones.
Soon, however, the entire town was wrapped in slumber; a feeble light
still glimmered in Madame’s apartment, which looked out upon the square,
and the soft rays from the expiring lamp seemed to be the image of the
calm sleep of a young girl, hardly yet sensible of life’s anxieties, and
in whom the flame of existence sinks placidly as sleep steals over the
body.

Bragelonne quitted the tent with the slow and measured step of a man
curious to observe, but anxious not to be seen. Sheltered behind the thick
curtains of his own tent, embracing with a glance the whole square, he
noticed that, after a few moments’ pause, the curtains of De Guiche’s tent
were agitated, and then drawn partially aside. Behind them he could
perceive the shadow of De Guiche, his eyes, glittering in the obscurity,
fastened ardently upon the princess’s sitting apartment, which was
partially lighted by the lamp in the inner room. The soft light which
illumined the windows was the count’s star. The fervent aspirations of his
nature could be read in his eyes. Raoul, concealed in the shadow, divined
the many passionate thoughts that established, between the tent of the
young ambassador and the balcony of the princess, a mysterious and magical
bond of sympathy—a bond created by thoughts imprinted with so much
strength and persistence of will, that they must have caused happy and
loving dreams to alight upon the perfumed couch, which the count, with the
eyes of his soul, devoured so eagerly.

But De Guiche and Raoul were not the only watchers. The window of one of
the houses looking on the square was opened too, the casement of the house
where Buckingham resided. By the aid of the rays of light which issued
from this latter, the profile of the duke could be distinctly seen, as he
indolently reclined upon the carved balcony with its velvet hangings; he
also was breathing in the direction of the princess’s apartment his
prayers and the wild visions of his love.

Raoul could not resist smiling, as thinking of Madame, he said to himself,
“Hers is, indeed, a heart well besieged;” and then added, compassionately,
as he thought of Monsieur, “and he is a husband well threatened too; it is
a good thing for him that he is a prince of such high rank, that he has an
army to safeguard for him that which is his own.” Bragelonne watched for
some time the conduct of the two lovers, listened to the loud and uncivil
slumbers of Manicamp, who snored as imperiously as though he was wearing
his blue and gold, instead of his violet suit.

Then he turned towards the night breeze which bore towards him, he seemed
to think, the distant song of the nightingale; and, after having laid in a
due provision of melancholy, another nocturnal malady, he retired to rest
thinking, with regard to his own love affair, that perhaps four or even a
larger number of eyes, quite as ardent as those of De Guiche and
Buckingham, were coveting his own idol in the chateau at Blois. “And
Mademoiselle de Montalais is by no means a very conscientious garrison,”
said he to himself, sighing aloud.

Chapter XII. From Le Havre to Paris.

The next day the fetes took place, accompanied by all the pomp and
animation that the resources of the town and the cheerful disposition of
men’s minds could supply. During the last few hours spent in Le Havre,
every preparation for the departure had been made. After Madame had taken
leave of the English fleet, and, once again, had saluted the country in
saluting its flags, she entered her carriage, surrounded by a brilliant
escort. De Guiche had hoped that the Duke of Buckingham would accompany
the admiral to England; but Buckingham succeeded in demonstrating to the
queen that there would be great impropriety in allowing Madame to proceed
to Paris, almost unprotected. As soon as it had been settled that
Buckingham was to accompany Madame, the young duke selected a corps of
gentlemen and officers to form part of his own suite, so that it was
almost an army that now set out towards Paris, scattering gold, and
exciting the liveliest demonstrations as they passed through the different
towns and villages on the route. The weather was very fine. France is a
beautiful country, especially along the route by which the procession
passed. Spring cast its flowers and its perfumed foliage on their path.
Normandy, with its vast variety of vegetation, its blue skies and silver
rivers, displayed itself in all the loveliness of a paradise to the new
sister of the king. Fetes and brilliant displays received them
everywhere along the line of march. De Guiche and Buckingham forgot
everything; De Guiche in his anxiety to prevent any fresh attempts on the
part of the duke, and Buckingham, in his desire to awaken in the heart of
the princess a softer remembrance of the country to which the recollection
of many happy days belonged. But, alas! the poor duke could perceive that
the image of that country so cherished by himself became, from day to day,
more and more effaced in Madame’s mind, in exact proportion as her
affection for France became more deeply engraved on her heart. In fact, it
was not difficult to perceive that his most devoted attention awakened no
acknowledgement, and that the grace with which he rode one of his most
fiery horses was thrown away, for it was only casually and by the merest
accident that the princess’s eyes were turned towards him. In vain did he
try, in order to fix upon himself one of those looks, which were thrown
carelessly around, or bestowed elsewhere, to produce in the animal he rode
its greatest display of strength, speed, temper and address; in vain did
he, by exciting his horse almost to madness, spur him, at the risk of
dashing himself in pieces against the trees, or of rolling in the ditches,
over the gates and barriers which they passed, or down the steep
declivities of the hills. Madame, whose attention had been aroused by the
noise, turned her head for a moment to observe the cause of it, and then,
slightly smiling, again entered into conversation with her faithful
guardians, Raoul and De Guiche, who were quietly riding at her carriage
doors. Buckingham felt himself a prey to all the tortures of jealousy; an
unknown, unheard of anguish glided through his veins, and laid siege to
his heart; and then, as if to show that he knew the folly of his conduct,
and that he wished to correct, by the humblest submission, his flights of
absurdity, he mastered his horse, and compelled him, reeking with sweat
and flecked with foam, to champ his bit close beside the carriage, amidst
the crowd of courtiers. Occasionally he obtained a word from Madame as a
recompense, and yet her speech seemed almost a reproach.

“That is well, my lord,” she said, “now you are reasonable.”

Or from Raoul, “Your Grace is killing your horse.”

Buckingham listened patiently to Raoul’s remarks, for he instinctively
felt, without having had any proof that such was the case, that Raoul
checked the display of De Guiche’s feelings, and that, had it not been for
Raoul, some mad act or proceeding, either of the count, or of Buckingham
himself, would have brought about an open rupture, or a disturbance—perhaps
even exile itself. From the moment of that excited conversation the two
young men had held in front of the tents at Le Havre, when Raoul made the
duke perceive the impropriety of his conduct, Buckingham felt himself
attracted towards Raoul almost in spite of himself. He often entered into
conversation with him, and it was nearly always to talk to him either of
his father or of D’Artagnan, their mutual friend, in whose praise
Buckingham was nearly as enthusiastic as Raoul. Raoul endeavored, as much
as possible, to make the conversation turn upon this subject in De
Wardes’s presence, who had, during the whole journey, been exceedingly
annoyed at the superior position taken by Bragelonne, and especially by
his influence over De Guiche. De Wardes had that keen and merciless
penetration most evil natures possess; he had immediately remarked De
Guiche’s melancholy, and divined the nature of his regard for the
princess. Instead, however, of treating the subject with the same reserve
which Raoul practiced; instead of regarding with that respect, which was
their due, the obligations and duties of society, De Wardes resolutely
attacked in the count the ever-sounding chord of juvenile audacity and
pride. It happened one evening, during a halt at Mantes, that while De
Guiche and De Wardes were leaning against a barrier, engaged in
conversation, Buckingham and Raoul were also talking together as they
walked up and down. Manicamp was engaged in devoted attendance on the
princess, who already treated him without reserve, on account of his
versatile fancy, his frank courtesy of manner, and conciliatory
disposition.

“Confess,” said De Wardes, “that you are really ill, and that your
pedagogue of a friend has not succeeded in curing you.”

“I do not understand you,” said the count.

“And yet it is easy enough; you are dying of love.”

“You are mad, De Wardes.”

“Madness it would be, I admit, if Madame were really indifferent to your
martyrdom; but she takes so much notice of it, observes it to such an
extent, that she compromises herself, and I tremble lest, on our arrival
at Paris, M. de Bragelonne may not denounce both of you.”

“For shame, De Wardes, again attacking De Bragelonne.”

“Come, come, a truce to child’s play,” replied the count’s evil genius, in
an undertone; “you know as well as I do what I mean. Besides, you must
have observed how the princess’s glance softens as she looks at you;—you
can tell, by the very inflection of her voice, what pleasure she takes in
listening to you, and can feel how thoroughly she appreciates the verses
you recite to her. You cannot deny, too, that every morning she tells you
how indifferently she slept the previous night.”

“True, De Wardes, quite true; but what good is there in your telling me
all that?”

“Is it not important to know the exact position of affairs?”

“No, no; not when I am a witness of things that are enough to drive one
mad.”

“Stay, stay,” said De Wardes; “look, she calls you,—do you
understand? Profit by the occasion, while your pedagogue is absent.”

De Guiche could not resist; an invincible attraction drew him towards the
princess. De Wardes smiled as he saw him withdraw.

“You are mistaken, monsieur,” said Raoul, suddenly stepping across the
barrier against which the previous moment the two friends had been
leaning. “The pedagogue is here, and has overheard you.”

De Wardes, at the sound of Raoul’s voice, which he recognized without
having occasion to look at him, half drew his sword.

“Put up your sword,” said Raoul; “you know perfectly well that, until our
journey is at an end, every demonstration of that nature is useless. Why
do you distill into the heart of the man you term your friend all the
bitterness that infects your own? As regards myself, you wish to arouse a
feeling of deep dislike against a man of honor—my father’s friend
and my own; and as for the count you wish him to love one who is destined
for your master. Really, monsieur, I should regard you as a coward, and a
traitor too, if I did not, with greater justice, regard you as a madman.”

“Monsieur,” exclaimed De Wardes, exasperated, “I was deceived, I find, in
terming you a pedagogue. The tone you assume, and the style which is
peculiarly your own, is that of a Jesuit, and not of a gentleman.
Discontinue, I beg, whenever I am present, this style I complain of, and
the tone also. I hate M. d’Artagnan, because he was guilty of a cowardly
act towards my father.”

“You lie, monsieur,” said Raoul, coolly.

“You give me the lie, monsieur?” exclaimed De Wardes.

“Why not, if what you assert is untrue?”

“You give me the lie, and will not draw your sword?”

“I have resolved, monsieur, not to kill you until Madame shall have been
delivered safely into her husband’s hands.”

“No,” replied Raoul, sternly, “but M. d’Artagnan’s sword kills; and, not
only do I possess his sword, but he has himself taught me how to use it;
and with that sword, when a befitting time arrives, I will avenge his name—a
name you have dishonored.”

“Take care, monsieur,” exclaimed De Wardes; “if you do not immediately
give me satisfaction, I will avail myself of every means to revenge
myself.”

“Indeed, monsieur,” said Buckingham, suddenly, appearing upon the scene of
action, “that is a threat which savors of assassination, and therefore,
ill becomes a gentleman.”

“What did you say, my lord?” said De Wardes, turning round towards him.

“I said, monsieur, that the words you have just spoken are displeasing to
my English ears.”

“Very well, monsieur, if what you say is true,” exclaimed De Wardes,
thoroughly incensed, “I at least find in you one who will not escape me.
Understand my words as you like.”

“I take them in the manner they cannot but be understood,” replied
Buckingham, with that haughty tone which characterized him, and which,
even in ordinary conversation, gave a tone of defiance to everything he
said; “M. de Bragelonne is my friend, you insult M. de Bragelonne, and you
shall give me satisfaction for that insult.”

De Wardes cast a look upon De Bragelonne, who, faithful to the character
he had assumed, remained calm and unmoved, even after the duke’s defiance.

“It would seem that I did not insult M. de Bragelonne, since M. de
Bragelonne, who carries a sword by his side, does not consider himself
insulted.”

“At all events you insult someone.”

“Yes, I insulted M. d’Artagnan,” resumed De Wardes, who had observed that
this was the only means of stinging Raoul, so as to awaken his anger.

“That, then,” said Buckingham, “is another matter.”

“Precisely so,” said De Wardes; “it is the province of M. d’Artagnan’s
friends to defend him.”

“I am entirely of your opinion,” replied the duke, who had regained all
his indifference of manner; “if M. de Bragelonne were offended, I could
not reasonably be expected to espouse his quarrel, since he is himself
here; but when you say that it is a quarrel of M. d’Artagnan—”

“You will of course leave me to deal with the matter,” said De Wardes.

“Nay, on the contrary, for I draw my sword,” said Buckingham, unsheathing
it as he spoke; “for if M. d’Artagnan injured your father, he rendered, or
at least did all that he could to render, a great service to mine.”

De Wardes was thunderstruck.

“M. d’Artagnan,” continued Buckingham, “is the bravest gentleman I know. I
shall be delighted, as I owe him many personal obligations, to settle them
with you, by crossing my sword with yours.” At the same moment Buckingham
drew his sword from its scabbard, saluted Raoul, and put himself on guard.

De Wardes advanced a step to meet him.

“Stay, gentlemen,” said Raoul, advancing towards them, and placing his own
drawn sword between the combatants, “the affair is hardly worth the
trouble of blood being shed almost in the presence of the princess. M. de
Wardes speaks ill of M. d’Artagnan, with whom he is not even acquainted.”

“What, monsieur,” said De Wardes, setting his teeth hard together, and
resting the point of his sword on the toe of his boot, “do you assert that
I do not know M. d’Artagnan?”

“Certainly not; you do not know him,” replied Raoul, coldly, “and you are
even not aware where he is to be found.”

“Not know where he is?”

“Such must be the case, since you fix your quarrel with him upon
strangers, instead of seeking M. d’Artagnan where he is to be found.” De
Wardes turned pale. “Well, monsieur,” continued Raoul, “I will tell you
where M. d’Artagnan is: he is now in Paris; when on duty he is to be met
with at the Louvre,—when not on duty, in the Rue des Lombards. M.
d’Artagnan can easily be discovered at either of those two places. Having,
therefore, as you assert, so many causes of complaint against him, show
your courage in seeking him out, and afford him an opportunity of giving
you that satisfaction you seem to ask of every one but of himself.” De
Wardes passed his hand across his forehead, which was covered with
perspiration. “For shame, M. de Wardes! so quarrelsome a disposition is
hardly becoming after the publication of the edicts against duels. Pray
think of that; the king will be incensed at our disobedience, particularly
at such a time,—and his majesty will be in the right.”

“Excuses,” murmured De Wardes; “mere pretexts.”

“Really, M. De Wardes,” resumed Raoul, “such remarks are the idlest
bluster. You know very well that the Duke of Buckingham is a man of
undoubted courage, who has already fought ten duels, and will probably
fight eleven. His name alone is significant enough. As far as I am
concerned, you are well aware that I can fight also. I fought at Lens, at
Bleneau, at the Dunes in front of the artillery, a hundred paces in front
of the line, while you—I say this parenthetically—were a
hundred paces behind it. True it is, that on that occasion there was far
too great a concourse of persons present for your courage to be observed,
and on that account perhaps you did not reveal it; while here, it would be
a display, and would excite remark—you wish that others should talk
about you, in what manner you do not care. Do not depend upon me, M. de
Wardes to assist you in your designs, for I shall certainly not afford you
that pleasure.”

“Sensibly observed,” said Buckingham, putting up his sword, “and I ask
your forgiveness, M. de Bragelonne, for having allowed myself to yield to
a first impulse.”

De Wardes, however, on the contrary, perfectly furious, bounded forward
and raised his sword, threateningly, against Raoul, who had scarcely
enough time to put himself in a posture of defense.

“Take care, monsieur,” said Bragelonne, tranquilly, “or you will put out
one of my eyes.”

“You will not fight, then?” said De Wardes.

“Not at this moment; but this I promise to do; immediately on our arrival
at Paris I will conduct you to M. d’Artagnan, to whom you shall detail all
the causes of complaint you have against him. M d’Artagnan will solicit
the king’s permission to measure swords with you. The king will yield his
consent, and when you shall have received the sword-thrust in due course,
you will consider, in a calmer frame of mind, the precepts of the Gospel,
which enjoin forgetfulness of injuries.”

“Ah!” exclaimed De Wardes, furious at this imperturbable coolness, “one
can clearly see you are half a bastard, M. de Bragelonne.”

Raoul became as pale as death; his eyes flashed lightning, causing De
Wardes involuntarily to fall back. Buckingham, also, who had perceived
their expression, threw himself between the two adversaries, whom he had
expected to see precipitate themselves on each other. De Wardes had
reserved this injury for the last; he clasped his sword firmly in his
hand, and awaited the encounter. “You are right, monsieur,” said Raoul,
mastering his emotion, “I am only acquainted with my father’s name; but I
know too well that the Comte de la Fere is too upright and honorable a man
to allow me to fear for a single moment that there is, as you insinuate,
any stain upon my birth. My ignorance, therefore, of my mother’s name is a
misfortune for me, and not a reproach. You are deficient in loyalty of
conduct; you are wanting in courtesy, in reproaching me with misfortune.
It matters little, however, the insult has been given, and I consider
myself insulted accordingly. It is quite understood, then, that after you
shall have received satisfaction from M. d’Artagnan, you will settle your
quarrel with me.”

“I admire your prudence, monsieur,” replied De Wardes with a bitter smile;
“a little while ago you promised me a sword-thrust from M. d’Artagnan, and
now, after I shall have received his, you offer me one from yourself.”

“Do not disturb yourself,” replied Raoul, with concentrated anger; “in all
affairs of that nature, M. d’Artagnan is exceedingly skillful, and I will
beg him as a favor to treat you as he did your father; in other words, to
spare your life at least, so as to leave me the pleasure, after your
recovery, of killing you outright; for you have the heart of a viper, M.
de Wardes, and in very truth, too many precautions cannot be taken against
you.”

“I shall take my precautions against you,” said De Wardes, “be assured of
it.”

“Allow me, monsieur,” said Buckingham, “to translate your remark by a
piece of advice I am about to give M. de Bragelonne; M. de Bragelonne,
wear a cuirass.”

De Wardes clenched his hands. “Ah!” said he, “you two gentlemen intend to
wait until you have taken that precaution before you measure your swords
against mine.”

“Very well, monsieur,” said Raoul, “since you positively will have it so,
let us settle the affair now.” And, drawing his sword, he advanced towards
De Wardes.

“What are you going to do?” said Buckingham.

“Be easy,” said Raoul, “it will not be very long.”

De Wardes placed himself on his guard; their swords crossed. De Wardes
flew upon Raoul with such impetuosity, that at the first clashing of the
steel blades Buckingham clearly saw that Raoul was only trifling with his
adversary. Buckingham stepped aside, and watched the combat. Raoul was as
calm as if he were handling a foil instead of a sword; having retreated a
step, he parried three or four fierce thrusts which De Wardes made at him,
caught the sword of the latter with within his own, and sent it flying
twenty paces the other side of the barrier. Then as De Wardes stood
disarmed and astounded at his defeat, Raoul sheathed his sword, seized him
by the collar and the waist band, and hurled his adversary to the other
end of the barrier, trembling, and mad with rage.

“We shall meet again,” murmured De Wardes, rising from the ground and
picking up his sword.

“I have done nothing for the last hour,” said Raoul, rising from the
ground, “but say the same thing.” Then, turning towards the duke, he said,
“I entreat you to be silent about this affair; I am ashamed to have gone
so far, but my anger carried me away, and I ask your forgiveness for it;—forget
it, too.”

“Dear viscount,” said the duke, pressing with his own the vigorous and
valiant hand of his companion, “allow me, on the contrary, to remember it,
and to look after your safety; that man is dangerous,—he will kill
you.”

“My father,” replied Raoul, “lived for twenty years under the menace of a
much more formidable enemy, and he still lives.”

“Your father had good friends, viscount.”

“Yes,” sighed Raoul, “such friends, indeed, that none are now left like
them.”

“Do not say that, I beg, at the very moment I offer you my friendship;”
and Buckingham opened his arms to embrace Raoul, who delightedly received
the proffered alliance. “In my family,” added Buckingham, “you are aware,
M. de Bragelonne, we die to save our friends.”

“I know it well, duke,” replied Raoul.

Chapter XIII. An Account of what the Chevalier de Lorraine Thought of
Madame.

Nothing further interrupted the journey. Under a pretext that was little
remarked, M. de Wardes went forward in advance of the others. He took
Manicamp with him, for his equable and dreamy disposition acted as a
counterpoise to his own. It is a subject of remark, that quarrelsome and
restless characters invariably seek the companionship of gentle, timorous
dispositions, as if the former sought, in the contrast, a repose for their
own ill-humor, and the latter a protection for their weakness. Buckingham
and Bragelonne, admitting De Guiche into their friendship, in concert with
him, sang the praises of the princess during the whole of the journey.
Bragelonne, had, however, insisted that their three voices should be in
concert, instead of singing in solo parts, as De Guiche and his rival
seemed to have acquired a dangerous habit of doing. This style of harmony
pleased the queen-mother exceedingly, but it was not perhaps so agreeable
to the young princess, who was an incarnation of coquetry, and who,
without any fear as far as her own voice was concerned, sought
opportunities of so perilously distinguishing herself. She possessed one
of those fearless and incautious dispositions that find gratification in
an excess of sensitiveness of feeling, and for whom, also, danger has a
certain fascination. And so her glances, her smiles, her toilette, an
inexhaustible armory of weapons of offense, were showered on the three
young men with overwhelming force; and, from her well-stored arsenal
issued glances, kindly recognitions, and a thousand other little charming
attentions which were intended to strike at long range the gentlemen who
formed the escort, the townspeople, the officers of the different cities
she passed through, pages, populace, and servants; it was wholesale
slaughter, a general devastation. By the time Madame arrived at Paris, she
had reduced to slavery about a hundred thousand lovers: and brought in her
train to Paris half a dozen men who were almost mad about her, and two who
were, indeed, literally out of their minds. Raoul was the only person who
divined the power of this woman’s attraction, and as his heart was already
engaged, he arrived in the capital full of indifference and distrust.
Occasionally during the journey he conversed with the queen of England
respecting the power of fascination which Madame possessed, and the
mother, whom so many misfortunes and deceptions had taught experience,
replied: “Henrietta was sure to be illustrious in one way or another,
whether born in a palace or born in obscurity; for she is a woman of great
imagination, capricious and self-willed.” De Wardes and Manicamp, in their
self-assumed character of courtiers, had announced the princess’s arrival.
The procession was met at Nanterre by a brilliant escort of cavaliers and
carriages. It was Monsieur himself, followed by the Chevalier de Lorraine
and by his favorites, the latter being themselves followed by a portion of
the king’s military household, who had arrived to meet his affianced
bride. At St. Germain, the princess and her mother had changed their heavy
traveling carriage, somewhat impaired by the journey, for a light, richly
decorated chariot drawn by six horses with white and gold harness. Seated
in this open carriage, as though upon a throne, and beneath a parasol of
embroidered silk, fringed with feathers, sat the young and lovely
princess, on whose beaming face were reflected the softened rose-tints
which suited her delicate skin to perfection. Monsieur, on reaching the
carriage, was struck by her beauty; he showed his admiration in so marked
a manner that the Chevalier de Lorraine shrugged his shoulders as he
listened to his compliments, while Buckingham and De Guiche were almost
heart-broken. After the usual courtesies had been rendered, and the
ceremony completed, the procession slowly resumed the road to Paris. The
presentations had been carelessly made, and Buckingham, with the rest of
the English gentlemen, had been introduced to Monsieur, from whom they had
received but very indifferent attention. But, during their progress, as he
observed that the duke devoted himself with his accustomed eagerness to
the carriage-door, he asked the Chevalier de Lorraine, his inseparable
companion, “Who is that cavalier?”

“He was presented to your highness a short while ago; it is the handsome
Duke of Buckingham.”

“Ah, yes, I remember.”

“Madame’s knight,” added the favorite, with an inflection of the voice
which envious minds can alone give to the simplest phrases.

“What do you say?” replied the prince.

“I said ‘Madame’s knight’.”

“Has she a recognized knight, then?”

“One would think you can judge of that for yourself; look, only, how they
are laughing and flirting. All three of them.”

“What do you mean by all three?”

“Do you not see that De Guiche is one of the party?”

“Yes, I see. But what does that prove?”

“That Madame has two admirers instead of one.”

“You poison the simplest thing!”

“I poison nothing. Ah! your royal highness’s mind is perverted. The honors
of the kingdom of France are being paid to your wife and you are not
satisfied.”

The Duke of Orleans dreaded the satirical humor of the Chevalier de
Lorraine whenever it reached a certain degree of bitterness, and he
changed the conversation abruptly. “The princess is pretty,” said he, very
negligently, as if he were speaking of a stranger.

“Yes,” replied the chevalier, in the same tone.

“You say ‘yes’ like a ‘no’. She has very beautiful black eyes.”

“Yes, but small.”

“That is so, but they are brilliant. She is tall, and of a good figure.”

“I fancy she stoops a little, my lord.”

“I do not deny it. She has a noble appearance.”

“Yes, but her face is thin.”

“I thought her teeth beautiful.”

“They can easily be seen, for her mouth is large enough. Decidedly, I was
wrong, my lord; you are certainly handsomer than your wife.”

“But do you think me as handsome as Buckingham?”

“Certainly, and he thinks so, too; for look, my lord, he is redoubling his
attentions to Madame to prevent your effacing the impression he has made.”

Monsieur made a movement of impatience, but as he noticed a smile of
triumph pass across the chevalier’s lips, he drew up his horse to a
foot-pace. “Why,” said he, “should I occupy myself any longer about my
cousin? Do I not already know her? Were we not brought up together? Did I
not see her at the Louvre when she was quite a child?”

“A great change has taken place in her since then, prince. At the period
you allude to, she was somewhat less brilliant, and scarcely so proud,
either. One evening, particularly, you may remember, my lord, the king
refused to dance with her, because he thought her plain and badly
dressed!”

These words made the Duke of Orleans frown. It was by no means flattering
for him to marry a princess of whom, when young, the king had not thought
much. He would probably have retorted, but at this moment De Guiche
quitted the carriage to join the prince. He had remarked the prince and
the chevalier together, and full of anxious attention he seemed to try and
guess the nature of the remarks which they had just exchanged. The
chevalier, whether he had some treacherous object in view, or from
imprudence, did not take the trouble to dissimulate. “Count,” he said,
“you’re a man of excellent taste.”

“Thank you for the compliment,” replied De Guiche; “but why do you say
that?”

“Well I appeal to his highness.”

“No doubt of it,” said Monsieur; “and Guiche knows perfectly well that I
regard him as a most finished cavalier.”

“Well, since that is decided, I resume. You have been in the princess’s
society, count, for the last eight days, have you not?”

“Yes,” replied De Guiche, coloring in spite of himself.

“Well then, tell us frankly, what do you think of her personal
appearance?”

“I am perfectly well aware,” returned Monsieur, “that the subject is a
delicate one, but you know you can tell me everything. What do you think
of her?”

In order to avoid betraying his real thoughts, De Guiche had recourse to
the only defense which a man taken by surprise really has, and accordingly
told an untruth. “I do not find Madame,” he said, “either good or bad
looking, yet rather good than bad looking.”

“What! count,” exclaimed the chevalier, “you who went into such ecstasies
and uttered so many exclamations at the sight of her portrait.”

De Guiche colored violently. Very fortunately, his horse, which was
slightly restive, enabled him by a sudden plunge to conceal his agitation.
“What portrait?” he murmured, joining them again. The chevalier had not
taken his eyes off him.

“Yes, the portrait. Was not the miniature a good likeness?”

“I do not remember. I had forgotten the portrait; it quite escaped my
recollection.”

“And yet it made a very marked impression upon you,” said the chevalier.

“That is not unlikely.”

“Is she witty, at all events?” inquired the duke.

“I believe so, my lord.”

“Is M. de Buckingham witty, too?” said the chevalier.

“I do not know.”

“My own opinion is that he must be,” replied the chevalier, “for he makes
Madame laugh, and she seems to take no little pleasure in his society,
which never happens to a clever woman when in the company of a simpleton.”

“Of course, then, he must be clever,” said De Guiche, simply.

At this moment Raoul opportunely arrived, seeing how De Guiche was pressed
by his dangerous questioner, to whom he addressed a remark, and in that
way changed the conversation. The entree was brilliant and joyous.

The king, in honor of his brother, had directed that the festivities
should be on a scale of the greatest possible magnificence. Madame and her
mother alighted at the Louvre, where, during their exile they had so
gloomily submitted to obscurity, misery, and privations of every
description. That palace, which had been so inhospitable a residence for
the unhappy daughter of Henry IV., the naked walls, the uneven floorings,
the ceilings matted with cobwebs, the vast dilapidated chimney-places, the
cold hearths on which the charity extended to them by parliament hardly
permitted a fire to glow, was completely altered in appearance. The
richest hangings and the thickest carpets, glistening flagstones, and
pictures, with their richly gilded frames; in every direction could be
seen candelabra, mirrors, and furniture and fittings of the most sumptuous
character; in every direction, also, were guards of the proudest military
bearing, with floating plumes, crowds of attendants and courtiers in the
ante-chambers and upon the staircases. In the courtyards, where the grass
had formerly been allowed to luxuriate, as if the ungrateful Mazarin had
thought it a good idea to let the Parisians perceive the solitude and
disorder were, with misery and despair, the fit accompaniments of fallen
monarchy; the immense courtyards, formerly silent and desolate, were now
thronged with courtiers whose horses were pacing and prancing to and fro.
The carriages were filled with young and beautiful women, who awaited the
opportunity of saluting, as she passed, the daughter of that daughter of
France who, during her widowhood and exile, had sometimes gone without
wood for her fire, and bread for her table, whom the meanest attendant at
the chateau had treated with indifference and contempt. And so, the Madame
Henriette once more returned to the Louvre, with her heart more swollen
with bitter recollections than her daughter’s, whose disposition was
fickle and forgetful, with triumph and delight. She knew but too well this
brilliant reception was paid to the happy mother of a king restored to his
throne, a throne second to none in Europe, while the worse than
indifferent reception she had before met with was paid to her, the
daughter of Henry IV., as a punishment for having been unfortunate. After
the princess had been installed in their apartments and had rested, the
gentlemen who had formed their escort, having, in like manner, recovered
from their fatigue, they resumed their accustomed habits and occupations.
Raoul began by setting off to see his father, who had left for Blois. He
then tried to see M. d’Artagnan, who, however, being engaged in the
organization of a military household for the king, could not be found
anywhere. Bragelonne next sought out De Guiche, but the count was occupied
in a long conference with his tailors and with Manicamp, which consumed
his whole time. With the Duke of Buckingham he fared still worse, for the
duke was purchasing horses after horses, diamonds upon diamonds. He
monopolized every embroiderer, jeweler, and tailor that Paris could boast
of. Between De Guiche and himself a vigorous contest ensued, invariably a
courteous one, in which, in order to insure success, the duke was ready to
spend a million; while the Marechal de Gramont had only allowed his son
sixty thousand francs. So Buckingham laughed and spent his money. Guiche
groaned in despair, and would have shown it more violently, had it not
been for the advice De Bragelonne gave him.

“A million!” repeated De Guiche daily; “I must submit. Why will not the
marechal advance me a portion of my patrimony?”

“Because you would throw it away,” said Raoul.

“What can that matter to him? If I am to die of it, I shall die of it, and
then I shall need nothing further.”

“But what need is there to die?” said Raoul.

“I do not wish to be conquered in elegance by an Englishman.”

“My dear count,” said Manicamp, “elegance is not a costly commodity, it is
only a very difficult accomplishment.”

“Yes, but difficult things cost a good deal of money, and I have only got
sixty thousand francs.”

“A very embarrassing state of things, truly,” said De Wardes; “even if you
spent as much as Buckingham, there is only nine hundred and forty thousand
francs difference.”

“Where am I to find them?”

“Get into debt.”

“I am in debt already.”

“A greater reason for getting further.”

Advice like this resulted in De Guiche becoming excited to such an extent
that he committed extravagances where Buckingham only incurred expenses.
The rumor of this extravagant profuseness delighted the hearts of all the
shopkeepers in Paris; from the hotel of the Duke of Buckingham to that of
the Comte de Gramont nothing but miracles was attempted. While all this
was going on, Madame was resting herself, and Bragelonne was engaged in
writing to Mademoiselle de la Valliere. He had already dispatched four
letters, and not an answer to any one of them had been received, when, on
the very morning fixed for the marriage ceremony, which was to take place
in the chapel at the Palais Royal, Raoul, who was dressing, heard his
valet announce M. de Malicorne. “What can this Malicorne want with me?”
thought Raoul; and then said to his valet, “Let him wait.”

“It is a gentleman from Blois,” said the valet.

“Admit him at once,” said Raoul, eagerly.

Malicorne entered as brilliant as a star, and wearing a superb sword at
his side. After having saluted Raoul most gracefully, he said: “M. de
Bragelonne, I am the bearer of a thousand compliments from a lady to you.”

Raoul colored. “From a lady,” said he, “from a lady of Blois?”

“Yes, monsieur; from Mademoiselle de Montalais.”

“Thank you, monsieur; I recollect you now,” said Raoul. “And what does
Mademoiselle de Montalais require of me.”

Malicorne drew four letters from his pocket, which he offered to Raoul.

“My own letters, is it possible?” he said, turning pale; “my letters, and
the seals unbroken?”

“Monsieur, your letters did not find at Blois the person to whom they were
addressed, and so they are now returned to you.”

Raoul looked at his strange visitor, and remained silent;—“At least,
tell me whether it is fortunate or unfortunate.”

“That you will see.”

“You are very severe in your reservations.”

“Will you grant me one favor, monsieur?” said Malicorne.

“In exchange for that you refuse me?”

“Precisely.”

“What is it?”

“I have the greatest desire to see the ceremony, and I have no ticket to
admit me, in spite of all the steps I have taken to secure one. Could you
get me admitted?”

“Certainly.”

“Do me this kindness, then, I entreat.”

“Most willingly, monsieur; come with me.”

“I am exceedingly indebted to you, monsieur,” said Malicorne.

“I thought you were a friend of M. de Manicamp.”

“I am, monsieur; but this morning I was with him as he was dressing, and I
let a bottle of blacking fall over his new dress, and he flew at me sword
in hand, so that I was obliged to make my escape. That is the reason I
could not ask him for a ticket. He wanted to kill me.”

“I can well believe it,” laughed Raoul. “I know Manicamp is capable of
killing a man who has been unfortunate enough to commit the crime you have
to reproach yourself with, but I will repair the mischief as far as you
are concerned. I will but fasten my cloak, and shall then be ready to
serve you, not only as a guide, but as your introducer, too.”

Chapter XIV. A Surprise for Raoul.

Madame’s marriage was celebrated in the chapel of the Palais Royal, in the
presence of a crowd of courtiers, who had been most scrupulously selected.
However, notwithstanding the marked favor which an invitation indicated,
Raoul, faithful to his promise to Malicorne, who was so anxious to witness
the ceremony, obtained admission for him. After he had fulfilled this
engagement, Raoul approached De Guiche, who, as if in contrast with his
magnificent costume, exhibited a countenance so utterly dejected, that the
Duke of Buckingham was the only one present who could contend with him as
far as pallor and discomfiture were concerned.

“Take care, count,” said Raoul, approaching his friend, and preparing to
support him at the moment the archbishop blessed the married couple. In
fact, the Prince of Conde was attentively scrutinizing these two images of
desolation, standing like caryatides on either side of the nave of the
church. The count, after that, kept a more careful watch over himself.

At the termination of the ceremony, the king and queen passed onward
towards the grand reception-room, where Madame and her suite were to be
presented to them. It was remarked that the king, who had seemed more than
surprised at his sister-in-law’s appearance, was most flattering in his
compliments to her. Again, it was remarked that the queen-mother, fixing a
long and thoughtful gaze upon Buckingham, leaned towards Madame de
Motteville as though to ask her, “Do you not see how much he resembles his
father?” and finally it was remarked that Monsieur watched everybody, and
seemed quite discontented. After the reception of the princess and
ambassadors, Monsieur solicited the king’s permission to present to him as
well as to Madame the persons belonging to their new household.

“Are you aware, vicomte,” inquired the Prince de Conde of Raoul, “whether
the household has been selected by a person of taste, and whether there
are any faces worth looking at?”

“I have not the slightest idea, monseigneur,” replied Raoul.

“You affect ignorance, surely.”

“In what way, monseigneur?”

“You are a friend of De Guiche, who is one of the friends of the prince.”

“That may be so, monseigneur; but the matter having no interest whatever
for me, I have never questioned De Guiche on the subject; and De Guiche,
on his part, never having been questioned, did not communicate any
particulars to me.”

“But Manicamp?”

“It is true I saw Manicamp at Le Havre, and during the journey here, but I
was no more inquisitive with him than I had been towards De Guiche.
Besides, is it likely that Manicamp should know anything of such matters?
for he is a person of only secondary importance.”

“My dear vicomte, do you not know better than that?” said the prince;
“why, it is these persons of secondary importance, who, on such occasions,
have all the influence; and the truth is, that nearly everything has been
done through Manicamp’s presentations to De Guiche, and through De Guiche
to Monsieur.”

“I assure you, monseigneur, I was ignorant of that,” said Raoul, “and what
your highness does me the honor to impart is perfectly new to me.”

“I will most readily believe you, although it seems incredible; besides we
shall not have long to wait. See, the flying squadron is advancing, as
good Queen Catherine used to say. Ah! ah! what pretty faces!”

A bevy of young girls at this moment entered the salon, conducted
by Madame de Navailles, and to Manicamp’s credit be it said, if indeed he
had taken that part in their selection which the Prince de Conde assigned
him, it was a display calculated to dazzle those who, like the prince,
could appreciate every character and style of beauty. A young,
fair-complexioned girl, from twenty to one-and-twenty years of age, and
whose large blue eyes flashed, as she opened them, in the most dazzling
manner, walked at the head of the band and was the first presented.

“Mademoiselle de Tonnay-Charente,” said Madame de Navailles to Monsieur,
who, as he saluted his wife, repeated “Mademoiselle de Tonnay-Charente.”

“Ah! ah!” said the Prince de Conde to Raoul, “she is presentable enough.”

“Yes,” said Raoul, “but has she not a somewhat haughty style?”

“Bah! we know these airs very well, vicomte; three months hence she will
be tame enough. But look, there, indeed, is a pretty face.”

“Yes,” said Raoul, “and one I am acquainted with.”

“Mademoiselle Aure de Montalais,” said Madame de Navailles. The name and
Christian name were carefully repeated by Monsieur.

“What’s the matter?” inquired the prince; “was it Mademoiselle Aure de
Montalais who made you utter such a ‘Great heavens’?”

“No, monseigneur, no,” replied Raoul, pale and trembling.

“Well, then, if it be not Mademoiselle Aure de Montalais, it is that
pretty blonde who follows her. What beautiful eyes! She is rather
thin, but has fascinations without number.”

“Mademoiselle de la Baume le Blanc de la Valliere!” said Madame de
Navailles; and, as this name resounded through his whole being, a cloud
seemed to rise from his breast to his eyes, so that he neither saw nor
heard anything more; and the prince, finding him nothing more than a mere
echo which remained silent under his railleries, moved forward to inspect
somewhat closer the beautiful girls whom his first glance had already
particularized.

“Louise here! Louise a maid of honor to Madame!” murmured Raoul, and his
eyes, which did not suffice to satisfy his reason, wandered from Louise to
Montalais. The latter had already emancipated herself from her assumed
timidity, which she only needed for the presentation and for her
reverences.

Mademoiselle de Montalais, from the corner of the room to which she had
retired, was looking with no slight confidence at the different persons
present; and, having discovered Raoul, she amused herself with the
profound astonishment which her own and her friend’s presence there caused
the unhappy lover. Her waggish and malicious look, which Raoul tried to
avoid meeting, and which yet he sought inquiringly from time to time,
placed him on the rack. As for Louise, whether from natural timidity, or
some other reason for which Raoul could not account, she kept her eyes
constantly cast down; intimidated, dazzled, and with impeded respiration,
she withdrew herself as much as possible aside, unaffected even by the
nudges Montalais gave her with her elbow. The whole scene was a perfect
enigma for Raoul, the key to which he would have given anything to obtain.
But no one was there who could assist him, not even Malicorne; who, a
little uneasy at finding himself in the presence of so many persons of
good birth, and not a little discouraged by Montalais’s bantering glances,
had described a circle, and by degrees succeeded in getting a few paces
from the prince, behind the group of maids of honor, and nearly within
reach of Mademoiselle Aure’s voice, she being the planet around which he,
as her attendant satellite, seemed constrained to gravitate. As he
recovered his self-possession, Raoul fancied he recognized voices on his
right hand side that were familiar to him, and he perceived De Wardes, De
Guiche, and the Chevalier de Lorraine conversing together. It is true they
were talking in tones so low, that the sound of their words could hardly
be heard in the vast apartment. To speak in that manner from any
particular place without bending down, or turning round, or looking at the
person with whom one may be engaged in conversation, is a talent that
cannot be immediately acquired by newcomers. Long study is needed for such
conversations, which, without a look, gesture, or movement of the head,
seem like the conversation of a group of statues. In fact, the king’s and
queen’s grand assemblies, while their majesties were speaking, and while
every one present seemed to be listening in the midst of the most profound
silence, some of these noiseless conversations took place, in which
adulation was not the prevailing feature. But Raoul was one among others
exceedingly clever in this art, so much a matter of etiquette, that from
the movement of the lips, he was often able to guess the sense of the
words.

“Who is that Montalais?” inquired De Wardes, “and that La Valliere? What
country-town have we had sent here?”

“Montalais?” said the chevalier,—“oh, I know her; she is a good sort
of girl, whom we shall find amusing enough. La Valliere is a charming
girl, slightly lame.”

“Ah! bah!” said De Wardes.

“Do not be absurd, De Wardes, there are some very characteristic and
ingenious Latin axioms about lame ladies.”

“Gentlemen, gentlemen,” said De Guiche, looking at Raoul with uneasiness,
“be a little careful, I entreat you.”

But the uneasiness of the count, in appearance at least, was not needed.
Raoul had preserved the firmest and most indifferent countenance, although
he had not lost a word that passed. He seemed to keep an account of the
insolence and license of the two speakers in order to settle matters with
them at the earliest opportunity.

De Wardes seemed to guess what was passing in his mind, and continued:

“Who are these young ladies’ lovers?”

“Montalais’s lover?” said the chevalier.

“Yes, Montalais first.”

“You, I, or De Guiche,—whoever likes, in fact.”

“And the other?”

“Mademoiselle de la Valliere?”

“Yes.”

“Take care, gentlemen,” exclaimed De Guiche, anxious to put a stop to the
chevalier’s reply; “take care, Madame is listening to us.”

Raoul had thrust his hand up to the wrist into his justaucorps in
great agitation. But the very malignity which he saw was excited against
these poor girls made him take a serious resolution. “Poor Louise,” he
thought, “has come here only with an honorable object in view, and under
honorable protection; and I must learn what that object is which she has
in view, and who it is that protects her.” And following Malicorne’s
maneuver, he made his way toward the group of the maids of honor. The
presentations were soon over. The king, who had done nothing but look at
and admire Madame, shortly afterwards left the reception-room, accompanied
by the two queens. The Chevalier de Lorraine resumed his place beside
Monsieur, and, as he accompanied him, insinuated a few drops of the venom
he had collected during the last hour, while looking at some of the faces
in the court, and suspecting that some of their hearts might be happy. A
few of the persons present followed the king as he quitted the apartment;
but such of the courtiers as assumed an independence of character, and
professed a gallantry of disposition, began to approach the ladies of the
court. The prince paid his compliments to Mademoiselle de Tonnay-Charente,
Buckingham devoted himself to Madame Chalais and Mademoiselle de
Lafayette, whom Madame already distinguished by her notice, and whom she
held in high regard. As for the Comte de Guiche, who had abandoned
Monsieur as soon as he could approach Madame alone, he conversed, with
great animation, with Madame de Valentinois, and with Mademoiselle de
Crequy and de Chatillon.

Amid these varied political, and amorous interests, Malicorne was anxious
to gain Montalais’s attention; but the latter preferred talking with
Raoul, even if it were only to amuse herself with his innumerable
questions and his astonishment. Raoul had gone directly to Mademoiselle de
la Valliere, and had saluted her with the profoundest respect, at which
Louise blushed, and could not say a word. Montalais, however, hurried to
her assistance.

“Well, monsieur le vicomte, here we are, you see.”

“I do, indeed, see you,” said Raoul smiling, “and it is exactly because
you are here that I wish to ask for some explanation.”

Malicorne approached the group with his most fascinating smile.

“Go away, Malicorne; really you are exceedingly indiscreet.” At this
remark Malicorne bit his lips and retired a few steps, without making any
reply. His smile, however, changed its expression, and from its former
frankness, became mocking in its expression.

“You wished for an explanation, M. Raoul?” inquired Montalais.

“It is surely worth one, I think; Mademoiselle de la Valliere is a maid of
honor to Madame!”

“Why should she not be a maid of honor, as well as myself?” inquired
Montalais.

“Pray accept my compliments, young ladies,” said Raoul, who fancied he
perceived they were not disposed to answer him in a direct manner.

“Your remark was not made in a very complimentary manner, vicomte.”

“Mine?”

“Certainly; I appeal to Louise.”

“M. de Bragelonne probably thinks the position is above my condition,”
said Louise, hesitatingly.

“Assuredly not,” replied Raoul, eagerly, “you know very well that such is
not my feeling; were you called upon to occupy a queen’s throne, I should
not be surprised; how much greater reason, then, such a position as this?
The only circumstance that amazes me is, that I should have learned it
only to-day, and that by the merest accident.”

“That is true,” replied Montalais, with her usual giddiness; “you know
nothing about it, and there is no reason you should. M. de Bragelonne had
written several letters to you, but your mother was the only person who
remained behind at Blois, and it was necessary to prevent these letters
from falling into her hands; I intercepted them, and returned them to M.
Raoul, so that he believed you were still at Blois while you were here in
Paris, and had no idea whatever, indeed, how high you had risen in rank.”

“Did you not inform M. Raoul, as I begged you to do?”

“Why should I? to give him opportunity of making some of his severe
remarks and moral reflections, and to undo what we have had so much
trouble in effecting? Certainly not.”

“Am I so very severe, then?” said Raoul, inquiringly.

“Besides,” said Montalais, “it is sufficient to say that it suited me. I
was about setting off for Paris—you were away; Louise was weeping
her eyes out; interpret that as you please; I begged a friend, a protector
of mine, who had obtained the appointment for me, to solicit one for
Louise; the appointment arrived. Louise left in order to get her costume
prepared; as I had my own ready, I remained behind; I received your
letters, and returned them to you, adding a few words, promising you a
surprise. Your surprise is before you, monsieur, and seems to be a fair
one enough; you have nothing more to ask. Come, M. Malicorne, it is now
time to leave these young people together: they have many things to talk
about; give me your hand; I trust that you appreciate the honor conferred
upon you, M. Malicorne.”

“Forgive me,” said Raoul, arresting the giddy girl, and giving to his
voice an intonation, the gravity of which contrasted with that of
Montalais; “forgive me, but may I inquire the name of the protector you
speak of; for if protection be extended towards you, Mademoiselle de
Montalais,—for which, indeed, so many reasons exist,” added Raoul,
bowing, “I do not see that the same reasons exist why Mademoiselle de la
Valliere should be similarly cared for.”

“But, M. Raoul,” said Louise, innocently, “there is no difference in the
matter, and I do not see why I should not tell it you myself; it was M.
Malicorne who obtained it for me.”

Raoul remained for a moment almost stupefied, asking himself if they were
trifling with him; he then turned round to interrogate Malicorne, but he
had been hurried away by Montalais, and was already at some distance from
them. Mademoiselle de la Valliere attempted to follow her friend, but
Raoul, with gentle authority, detained her.

“Louise, one word, I beg.”

“But, M. Raoul,” said Louise, blushing, “we are alone. Every one has left.
They will become anxious, and will be looking for us.”

“Fear nothing,” said the young man, smiling, “we are neither of us of
sufficient importance for our absence to be remarked.”

“But I have my duty to perform, M. Raoul.”

“Do not be alarmed, I am acquainted with these usages of the court; you
will not be on duty until to-morrow; a few minutes are at your disposal,
which will enable you to give me the information I am about to have the
honor to ask you for.”

“How serious you are, M. Raoul!” said Louise.

“Because the circumstances are serious. Are you listening?”

“I am listening; I would only repeat, monsieur, that we are quite alone.”

“You are right,” said Raoul, and, offering her his hand, he led the young
girl into the gallery adjoining the reception-room, the windows of which
looked out upon the courtyard. Every one hurried towards the middle
window, which had a balcony outside, from which all the details of the
slow and formal preparations for departure could be seen. Raoul opened one
of the side windows, and then, being alone with Louise, said to her: “You
know, Louise, that from my childhood I have regarded you as my sister, as
one who has been the confidante of all my troubles, to whom I have
entrusted all my hopes.”

“Yes, M. Raoul,” she answered softly; “yes, M. Raoul, I know that.”

“You used, on your side, to show the same friendship towards me, and had
the same confidence in me; why have you not, on this occasion, been my
friend,—why have you shown suspicion of me?”

Mademoiselle de la Valliere did not answer. “I fondly thought you loved
me,” said Raoul, whose voice became more and more agitated; “I fondly
thought you consented to all the plans we had, together, laid down for our
own happiness, at the time when we wandered up and down the walks of
Cour-Cheverny, under the avenue of poplar trees leading to Blois. You do
not answer me, Louise. Is it possible,” he inquired, breathing with
difficulty, “that you no longer love me?”

“I did not say so,” replied Louise, softly.

“Oh! tell me the truth, I implore you. All my hopes in life are centered
in you. I chose you for your gentle and simple tastes. Do not suffer
yourself to be dazzled, Louise, now that you are in the midst of a court
where all that is pure too soon becomes corrupt—where all that is
young too soon grows old. Louise, close your ears, so as not to hear what
may be said; shut your eyes, so as not to see the examples before you;
shut your lips, that you may not inhale the corrupting influences about
you. Without falsehood or subterfuge, Louise, am I to believe what
Mademoiselle de Montalais stated? Louise, did you come to Paris because I
was no longer at Blois?”

La Valliere blushed and concealed her face in her hands.

“Yes, it was so, then!” exclaimed Raoul, delightedly; “that was, then,
your reason for coming here. I love you as I never yet loved you. Thanks,
Louise, for this devotion; but measures must be taken to place you beyond
all insult, to shield you from every lure. Louise, a maid of honor, in the
court of a young princess in these days of free manners and inconstant
affections—a maid of honor is placed as an object of attack without
having any means of defence afforded her; this state of things cannot
continue; you must be married in order to be respected.”

“Married?”

“Yes, here is my hand, Louise; will you place yours within it?”

“But your father?”

“My father leaves me perfectly free.”

“Yet—”

“I understand your scruples, Louise; I will consult my father.”

“Reflect, M. Raoul; wait.”

“Wait! it is impossible. Reflect, Louise, when you are concerned!
it would be insulting,—give me your hand, dear Louise; I am my own
master. My father will consent, I know; give me your hand, do not keep me
waiting thus. One word in answer, one word only; if not, I shall begin to
think that, in order to change you forever, nothing more was needed than a
single step in the palace, a single breath of favor, a smile from the
queen, a look from the king.”

Raoul had no sooner pronounced this latter word, than La Valliere became
as pale as death, no doubt from fear at seeing the young man excite
himself. With a movement as rapid as thought, she placed both her hands in
those of Raoul, and then fled, without adding a syllable; disappearing
without casting a look behind her. Raoul felt his whole frame tremble at
the contact of her hand; he received the compact as a solemn bargain wrung
by affection from her child-like timidity.

Chapter XV. The Consent of Athos.

Raoul quitted the Palais Royal full of ideas that admitted no delay in
execution. He mounted his horse in the courtyard, and followed the road to
Blois, while the marriage festivities of Monsieur and the princess of
England were being celebrated with exceeding animation by the courtiers,
but to the despair of De Guiche and Buckingham. Raoul lost no time on the
road, and in sixteen hours he arrived at Blois. As he traveled along, he
marshaled his arguments in the most becoming manner. Fever is an argument
that cannot be answered, and Raoul had an attack. Athos was in his study,
making additions to his memoirs, when Raoul entered, accompanied by
Grimaud. Keen-sighted and penetrating, a mere glance at his son told him
that something extraordinary had befallen him.

“You seem to come on a matter of importance,” said he to Raoul, after he
had embraced him, pointing to a seat.

“Yes, monsieur,” replied the young man; “and I entreat you to give me the
same kind attention that has never yet failed me.”

“Speak, Raoul.”

“I present the case to you, monsieur, free from all preface, for that
would be unworthy of you. Mademoiselle de la Valliere is in Paris as one
of Madame’s maids of honor. I have pondered deeply on the matter; I love
Mademoiselle de la Valliere above everything; and it is not proper to
leave her in a position where her reputation, her virtue even, may be
assailed. It is my wish, therefore, to marry her, monsieur, and I have
come to solicit your consent to my marriage.”

While this communication was being made to him, Athos maintained the
profoundest silence and reserve. Raoul, who had begun his address with an
assumption of self-possession, finished it by allowing a manifest emotion
to escape him at every word. Athos fixed upon Bragelonne a searching look,
overshadowed indeed by a slight sadness.

“You have reflected well upon it?” he inquired.

“Yes, monsieur.”

“I believe you are already acquainted with my views respecting this
alliance?”

“Yes, monsieur,” replied Raoul, in a low tone of voice; “but you added,
that if I persisted—”

“You do persist, then?”

Raoul stammered out an almost unintelligible assent.

“Your passion,” continued Athos, tranquilly, “must indeed be very great,
since, notwithstanding my dislike to this union, you persist in wanting
it.”

Raoul passed his hand trembling across his forehead to remove the
perspiration that collected there. Athos looked at him, and his heart was
touched by pity. He rose and said,—

“It is no matter. My own personal feelings are not to be taken into
consideration since yours are concerned; I am ready to give it. Tell me
what you want.”

“Your kind indulgence, first of all, monsieur,” said Raoul, taking hold of
his hand.

“You have mistaken my feelings, Raoul, I have more than mere indulgence
for you in my heart.”

Raoul kissed as devotedly as a lover could have done the hand he held in
his own.

“Come, come,” said Athos, “I am quite ready; what do you wish me to sign?”

“Nothing whatever, monsieur, only it would be very kind if you would take
the trouble to write to the king, to whom I belong, and solicit his
majesty’s permission for me to marry Mademoiselle de la Valliere.”

“Well thought, Raoul! After, or rather before myself, you have a master to
consult, that master being the king; it is loyal in you to submit yourself
voluntarily to this double proof; I will grant your request without delay,
Raoul.”

The count approached the window, and leaning out, called to Grimaud, who
showed his head from an arbor covered with jasmine, which he was occupied
in trimming.

“My horses, Grimaud,” continued the count.

“Why this order, monsieur?” inquired Raoul.

“We shall set off in a few hours.”

“Whither?”

“For Paris.”

“Paris, monsieur?”

“Is not the king at Paris?”

“Certainly.”

“Well, ought we not to go there?”

“Yes, monsieur,” said Raoul, almost alarmed by this kind condescension. “I
do not ask you to put yourself to such inconvenience, and a letter merely—”

“You mistake my position, Raoul; it is not respectful that a simple
gentleman, such as I am, should write to his sovereign. I wish to speak, I
ought to speak, to the king, and I will do so. We will go together,
Raoul.”

“You overpower me with your kindness, monsieur.”

“How do you think his majesty is affected?”

“Towards me, monsieur?”

“Yes.”

“Excellently well disposed.”

“You know that to be so?” continued the count.

“The king has himself told me so.”

“On what occasion?”

“Upon the recommendation of M. d’Artagnan, I believe, and on account of an
affair in the Place de Greve, when I had the honor to draw my sword in the
king’s service. I have reason to believe that, vanity apart, I stand well
with his majesty.”

“So much the better.”

“But I entreat you, monsieur,” pursued Raoul, “not to maintain towards me
your present grave and serious manner. Do not make me bitterly regret
having listened to a feeling stronger than anything else.”

“That is the second time you have said so, Raoul; it was quite
unnecessary; you require my formal consent, and you have it. We need talk
no more on the subject, therefore. Come and see my new plantations,
Raoul.”

The young man knew very well, that, after the expression of his father’s
wish, no opportunity of discussion was left him. He bowed his head, and
followed his father into the garden. Athos slowly pointed out to him the
grafts, the cuttings, and the avenues he was planting. This perfect repose
of manner disconcerted Raoul extremely; the affection with which his own
heart was filled seemed so great that the whole world could hardly contain
it. How, then, could his father’s heart remain void, and closed to its
influence? Bragelonne, therefore, collecting all his courage, suddenly
exclaimed,—

“It is impossible, monsieur, you can have any reason to reject
Mademoiselle de la Valliere! In Heaven’s name, she is so good, so gentle
and pure, that your mind, so perfect in its penetration, ought to
appreciate her accordingly. Does any secret repugnance, or any hereditary
dislike, exist between you and her family?”

“Look, Raoul, at that beautiful lily of the valley,” said Athos; “observe
how the shade and the damp situation suit it, particularly the shadow
which that sycamore-tree casts over it, so that the warmth, and not the
blazing heat of the sun, filters through its leaves.”

Raoul stopped, bit his lips, and then, with the blood mantling in his
face, he said, courageously,—“One word of explanation, I beg,
monsieur. You cannot forget that your son is a man.”

“In that case,” replied Athos, drawing himself up with sternness, “prove
to me that you are a man, for you do not show yourself a son. I begged you
to wait the opportunity of forming an illustrious alliance. I would have
obtained a wife for you from the first ranks of the rich nobility. I wish
you to be distinguished by the splendor which glory and fortune confer,
for nobility of descent you have already.”

“Monsieur,” exclaimed Raoul, carried away by a first impulse. “I was
reproached the other day for not knowing who my mother was.”

Athos turned pale; then, knitting his brows like the greatest of all the
heathen deities:—“I am waiting to learn the reply you made,” he
demanded, in an imperious manner.

“Forgive me! oh, forgive me,” murmured the young man, sinking at once from
the lofty tone he had assumed.

“What was your reply, monsieur?” inquired the count, stamping his feet
upon the ground.

“Monsieur, my sword was in my hand immediately, my adversary placed
himself on guard, I struck his sword over the palisade, and threw him
after it.”

“Why did you suffer him to live?”

“The king has prohibited duelling, and, at the moment, I was an ambassador
of the king.”

“Very well,” said Athos, “but all the greater reason I should see his
majesty.”

“What do you intend to ask him?”

“Authority to draw my sword against the man who has inflicted this injury
upon me.”

“If I did not act as I ought to have done, I beg you to forgive me.”

“Did I reproach you, Raoul?”

“Still, the permission you are going to ask from the king?”

“I will implore his majesty to sign your marriage-contract, but on one
condition.”

“Are conditions necessary with me, monsieur? Command, and you shall be
obeyed.”

“On the condition, I repeat,” continued Athos; “that you tell me the name
of the man who spoke of your mother in that way.”

“What need is there that you should know his name; the offense was
directed against myself, and the permission once obtained from his
majesty, to revenge it is my affair.”

“Tell me his name, monsieur.”

“I will not allow you to expose yourself.”

“Do you take me for a Don Diego? His name, I say.”

“You insist upon it?”

“I demand it.”

“The Vicomte de Wardes.”

“Very well,” said Athos, tranquilly, “I know him. But our horses are
ready, I see; and, instead of delaying our departure for a couple of
hours, we will set off at once. Come, monsieur.”

Chapter XVI. Monsieur Becomes Jealous of the Duke of Buckingham.

While the Comte de la Fere was proceeding on his way to Pairs, accompanied
by Raoul, the Palais Royal was the theatre wherein a scene of what Moliere
would have called excellent comedy, was being performed. Four days had
elapsed since his marriage, and Monsieur, having breakfasted very
hurriedly, passed into his ante-chamber, frowning and out of temper. The
repast had not been over-agreeable. Madame had had breakfast served in her
own apartment, and Monsieur had breakfasted almost alone; the Chevalier de
Lorraine and Manicamp were the only persons present at the meal, which
lasted three-quarters of an hour without a single syllable having been
uttered. Manicamp, who was less intimate with his royal highness than the
Chevalier de Lorraine, vainly endeavored to detect, from the expression of
the prince’s face, what had made him so ill-humored. The Chevalier de
Lorraine, who had no occasion to speculate about anything, inasmuch as he
knew all, ate his breakfast with that extraordinary appetite which the
troubles of one’s friends but stimulates, and enjoyed at the same time
both Monsieur’s ill-humor and the vexation of Manicamp. He seemed
delighted, while he went on eating, to detain a prince, who was very
impatient to move, still at table. Monsieur at times repented the
ascendency which he had permitted the Chevalier de Lorraine to acquire
over him, and which exempted the latter from any observance of etiquette
towards him. Monsieur was now in one of those moods, but he dreaded as
much as he liked the chevalier, and contented himself with nursing his
anger without betraying it. Every now and then Monsieur raised his eyes to
the ceiling, then lowered them towards the slices of pate which the
chevalier was attacking, and finally, not caring to betray the resentment,
he gesticulated in a manner which Harlequin might have envied. At last,
however, Monsieur could control himself no longer, and at the dessert,
rising from the table in excessive wrath, as we have related, he left the
Chevalier de Lorraine to finish his breakfast as he pleased. Seeing
Monsieur rise from the table, Manicamp, napkin in hand, rose also.
Monsieur ran rather than walked, towards the ante-chamber, where, noticing
an usher in attendance, he gave him some directions in a low tone of
voice. Then, turning back again, but avoiding passing through the
breakfast apartment, he crossed several rooms, with the intention of
seeking the queen-mother in her oratory, where she usually remained.

It was about ten o’clock in the morning. Anne of Austria was engaged in
writing as Monsieur entered. The queen-mother was extremely attached to
her son, for he was handsome in person and amiable in disposition. He was,
in fact, more affectionate, and it might be, more effeminate than the
king. He pleased his mother by those trifling sympathizing attentions all
women are glad to receive. Anne of Austria, who would have been rejoiced
to have had a daughter, almost found in this, her favorite son, the
attentions, solicitude, and playful manners of a child of twelve years of
age. All the time he passed with his mother he employed in admiring her
arms, in giving his opinion upon her cosmetics, and recipes for
compounding essences, in which she was very particular; and then, too, he
kissed her hands and cheeks in the most childlike and endearing manner,
and had always some sweetmeats to offer her, or some new style of dress to
recommend. Anne of Austria loved the king, or rather the regal power in
her eldest son; Louis XIV. represented legitimacy by right divine. With
the king, her character was that of the queen-mother, with Philip she was
simply the mother. The latter knew that, of all places, a mother’s heart
is the most compassionate and surest. When quite a child he always fled
there for refuge when he and his brother quarreled, often, after having
struck him, which constituted the crime of high treason on his part, after
certain engagements with hands and nails, in which the king and his
rebellious subject indulged in their night-dresses respecting the right to
a disputed bed, having their servant Laporte as umpire,—Philip,
conqueror, but terrified at victory, used to flee to his mother to obtain
reinforcements from her, or at least the assurance of forgiveness, which
Louis XIV. granted with difficulty, and after an interval. Anne, from this
habit of peaceable intervention, succeeded in arranging the disputes of
her sons, and in sharing, at the same time, all their secrets. The king,
somewhat jealous of that maternal solicitude which was bestowed
particularly on his brother, felt disposed to show towards Anne of Austria
more submission and attachment than his character really dictated. Anne of
Austria had adopted this line of conduct especially towards the young
queen. In this manner she ruled with almost despotic sway over the royal
household, and she was already preparing her batteries to govern with the
same absolute authority the household of her second son. Anne experienced
almost a feeling of pride whenever she saw any one enter her apartment
with woe-begone looks, pale cheeks, or red eyes, gathering from
appearances that assistance was required either by the weakest or the most
rebellious. She was writing, we have said, when Monsieur entered her
oratory, not with red eyes or pale cheeks, but restless, out of temper,
and annoyed. With an absent air he kissed his mother’s hands, and sat
himself down before receiving her permission to do so. Considering the
strict rules of etiquette established at the court of Anne of Austria,
this forgetfulness of customary civilities was a sign of preoccupation,
especially on Philip’s part, who, of his own accord, observed a respect
towards her of a somewhat exaggerated character. If, therefore, he so
notoriously failed in this regard, there must be a serious cause for it.

“What is the matter, Philip?” inquired Anne of Austria, turning towards
her son.

“A good many things,” murmured the prince, in a doleful tone of voice.

“You look like a man who has a great deal to do,” said the queen, laying
down her pen. Philip frowned, but did not reply. “Among the various
subjects which occupy your mind,” said Anne of Austria, “there must surely
be one that absorbs it more than others.”

“One has indeed occupied me more than any other.”

“Well, what is it? I am listening.”

Philip opened his mouth as if to express all the troubles his mind was
filled with, and which he seemed to be waiting only for an opportunity of
declaring. But he suddenly became silent, and a sigh alone expressed all
that his heart was overflowing with.

“Come, Philip, show a little firmness,” said the queen-mother. “When one
has to complain of anything, it is generally an individual who is the
cause of it. Am I not right?”

“I do not say no, madame.”

“Whom do you wish to speak about? Come, take courage.”

“In fact, madame, what I might possibly have to say must be kept a
profound secret; for when a lady is in the case—”

“Ah! you are speaking of Madame, then?” inquired the queen-mother, with a
feeling of the liveliest curiosity.

“Yes.”

“Well, then, if you wish to speak of Madame, do not hesitate to do so. I
am your mother, and she is no more than a stranger to me. Yet, as she is
my daughter-in-law, rest assured I shall be interested, even were it for
your own sake alone, in hearing all you may have to say about her.”

“Pray tell me, madame, in your turn, whether you have not remarked
something?”

“‘Something’! Philip? Your words almost frighten me, from their want of
meaning. What do you mean by ‘something?’”

“Madame is pretty, certainly.”

“No doubt of it.”

“Yet not altogether beautiful.”

“No, but as she grows older, she will probably become strikingly
beautiful. You must have remarked the change which a few years have
already made in her. Her beauty will improve more and more; she is now
only sixteen years of age. At fifteen I was, myself, very thin; but even
as she is at present, Madame is very pretty.”

“And consequently others have remarked it.”

“Undoubtedly, for a woman of ordinary rank is noticed—and with still
greater reason a princess.”

“She has been well brought up, I suppose?”

“Madame Henriette, her mother, is a woman somewhat cold in manner,
slightly pretentious, but full of noble thoughts. The princess’s education
may have been neglected, but her principles, I believe, are good. Such at
least was the opinion I formed of her when she resided in France; but she
afterwards returned to England, and I am ignorant what may have occurred
there.”

“What do you mean?”

“Simply that there are some heads naturally giddy, which are easily turned
by prosperity.”

“That is the very word, madame. I think the princess rather giddy.”

“We must not exaggerate, Philip; she is clever and witty, and has a
certain amount of coquetry very natural in a young woman; but this defect
in persons of high rank and position, is a great advantage at a court. A
princess who is tinged with coquetry usually forms a brilliant court; her
smile stimulates luxury, arouses wit, and even courage; the nobles, too,
fight better for a prince whose wife is beautiful.”

“Thank you extremely, madame,” said Philip, with some temper; “you really
have drawn some very alarming pictures for me.”

“In what respect?” asked the queen, with pretended simplicity.

“You know, madame,” said Philip, dolefully, “whether I had or had not a
very great dislike to getting married.”

“Now, indeed, you alarm me. You have some serious cause of complaint
against Madame.”

“I do not precisely say it is serious.”

“In that case, then, throw aside your doleful looks. If you show yourself
to others in your present state, people will take you for a very unhappy
husband.”

“The fact is,” replied Philip, “I am not altogether satisfied as a
husband, and I shall not be sorry if others know it.”

“For shame, Philip.”

“Well, then, madame, I will tell you frankly that I do not understand the
life I am required to lead.”

“Explain yourself.”

“My wife does not seem to belong to me; she is always leaving me for some
reason or another. In the mornings there are visits, correspondences, and
toilettes; in the evenings, balls and concerts.”

“You are jealous, Philip.”

“I! Heaven forbid. Let others act the part of a jealous husband, not I.
But I am annoyed.”

“All these things you reproach your wife with are perfectly innocent, and,
so long as you have nothing of greater importance—”

“Yet, listen; without being very blamable, a woman can excite a good deal
of uneasiness. Certain visitors may be received, certain preferences
shown, which expose young women to remark, and which are enough to drive
out of their senses even those husbands who are least disposed to be
jealous.”

“Ah! now we are coming to the real point at last, and not without some
difficulty. You speak of frequent visits, and certain preferences—very
good; for the last hour we have been beating about the bush, and at last
you have broached the true question.”

“Well then, yes—”

“This is more serious than I thought. It is possible, then, that Madame
can have given you grounds for these complaints against her?”

“Precisely so.”

“What, your wife, married only four days ago, prefers some other person to
yourself? Take care, Philip, you exaggerate your grievances; in wishing to
prove everything, you prove nothing.”

The prince, bewildered by his mother’s serious manner, wished to reply,
but he could only stammer out some unintelligible words.

“You draw back, then?” said Anne of Austria. “I prefer that, as it is an
acknowledgement of your mistake.”

“No!” exclaimed Philip, “I do not draw back, and I will prove all I
asserted. I spoke of preference and of visits, did I not? Well, listen.”

Anne of Austria prepared herself to listen, with that love of gossip which
the best woman living and the best mother, were she a queen even, always
finds in being mixed up with the petty squabbles of a household.

“Well,” said Philip, “tell me one thing.”

“What is that?”

“Why does my wife retain an English court about her?” said Philip, as he
crossed his arms and looked his mother steadily in the face, as if he were
convinced that she could not answer the question.

“For a very simple reason,” returned Anne of Austria; “because the English
are her countrymen, because they have expended large sums in order to
accompany her to France, and because it would hardly be polite —not
politic, certainly—to dismiss abruptly those members of the English
nobility who have not shrunk from any devotion or sacrifice.”

“A wonderful sacrifice indeed,” returned Philip, “to desert a wretched
country to come to a beautiful one, where a greater effect can be produced
for a guinea that can be procured elsewhere for four! Extraordinary
devotion, really, to travel a hundred leagues in company with a woman one
is in love with!”

“In love, Philip! think what you are saying. Who is in love with Madame?”

“The Duke of Buckingham. Perhaps you will defend him, too?”

Anne of Austria blushed and smiled at the same time. The name of the Duke
of Buckingham recalled certain recollections of a very tender and
melancholy nature. “The Duke of Buckingham?” she murmured.

“Yes; one of those arm-chair soldiers—”

“The Buckinghams are loyal and brave,” said Anne of Austria, courageously.

“This is too bad; my own mother takes the part of my wife’s lover against
me,” exclaimed Philip, incensed to such an extent that his weak
organization was affected almost to tears.

“Philip, my son,” exclaimed Anne of Austria, “such an expression is
unworthy of you. Your wife has no lover; and, had she one, it would not be
the Duke of Buckingham. The members of that family, I repeat, are loyal
and discreet, and the rights of hospitality are sure to be respected by
them.”

“The Duke of Buckingham is an Englishman, madame,” said Philip, “and may I
ask if the English so very religiously respect what belongs to princes of
France?”

Anne blushed a second time, and turned aside under the pretext of taking
her pen from her desk again, but in reality to conceal her confusion from
her son. “Really, Philip,” she said, “you seem to discover expressions for
the purpose of embarrassing me, and your anger blinds you while it alarms
me; reflect a little.”

“There is no need for reflection, madame. I can see with my own eyes.”

“Well, and what do you see?”

“That Buckingham never quits my wife. He presumes to make presents to her,
and she ventures to accept them. Yesterday she was talking about sauchets
a la violette; well, our French perfumers, you know very well, madame,
for you have over and over again asked for it without success—our
French perfumers, I say, have never been able to procure this scent. The
duke, however, wore about him a sachet a la violette, and I am sure
that the one my wife has came from him.”

“Indeed, monsieur,” said Anne of Austria, “you build your pyramids on
needle points; be careful. What harm, I ask you, can there be in a man
giving to his countrywoman a recipe for a new essence? These strange
ideas, I protest, painfully recall your father to me; he who so frequently
and so unjustly made me suffer.”

“The Duke of Buckingham’s father was probably more reserved and more
respectful than his son,” said Philip, thoughtlessly, not perceiving how
deeply he had wounded his mother’s feelings. The queen turned pale, and
pressed her clenched hands upon her bosom; but, recovering herself
immediately, she said, “You came here with some intention or another, I
suppose?”

“Certainly.”

“What was it?”

“I came, madame, intending to complain energetically, and to inform you
that I will not submit to such behavior from the Duke of Buckingham.”

“What do you intend to do, then?”

“I shall complain to the king.”

“And what do you expect the king to reply?”

“Very well, then,” said Monsieur, with an expression of stern
determination on his countenance, which offered a singular contrast to its
usual gentleness. “Very well. I will right myself!”

“What do you call righting yourself?” inquired Anne of Austria, in alarm.

“I will have the Duke of Buckingham quit the princess, I will have him
quit France, and I will see that my wishes are intimated to him.”

“You will intimate nothing of the kind, Philip,” said the queen, “for if
you act in that manner, and violate hospitality to that extent, I will
invoke the severity of the king against you.”

“Do you threaten me, madame?” exclaimed Philip, almost in tears; “do you
threaten me in the midst of my complaints?”

“I do not threaten you; I do but place an obstacle in the path of your
hasty anger. I maintain, that, to adopt towards the Duke of Buckingham, or
any other Englishman, any rigorous measure—to take even a
discourteous step towards him, would be to plunge France and England into
the most disastrous disagreement. Can it be possible that a prince of the
blood, the brother of the king of France, does not know how to hide an
injury, even did it exist in reality, where political necessity requires
it?” Philip made a movement. “Besides,” continued the queen, “the injury
is neither true nor possible, and it is merely a matter of silly
jealousy.”

“Madame, I know what I know.”

“Whatever you may know, I can only advise you to be patient.”

“I am not patient by disposition, madame.”

The queen rose, full of severity, and with an icy ceremonious manner.
“Explain what you really require, monsieur,” she said.

“I do not require anything, madame; I simply express what I desire. If the
Duke of Buckingham does not, of his own accord, discontinue his visits to
my apartments I shall forbid him entrance.”

“That is a point you will refer to the king,” said Anne of Austria, her
heart swelling as she spoke, and her voice trembling with emotion.

“But, madame,” exclaimed Philip, striking his hands together, “act as my
mother and not as the queen, since I speak to you as a son; it is simply a
matter of a few minutes’ conversation between the duke and myself.”

“It is that very conversation I forbid,” said the queen, resuming her
authority, “because it is unworthy of you.”

“Be it so; I will not appear in the matter, but I shall intimate my will
to Madame.”

“Oh!” said the queen-mother, with a melancholy arising from reflection,
“never tyrannize over a wife—never behave too haughtily or
imperiously towards your own. A woman unwillingly convinced, is
unconvinced.”

“What is to be done, then?—I will consult my friends about it.”

“Yes, your double-dealing advisers, your Chevalier de Lorraine—your
De Wardes. Intrust the conduct of this affair to me. You wish the Duke of
Buckingham to leave, do you not?”

“As soon as possible, madame.”

“Send the duke to me, then; smile upon your wife, behave to her, to the
king, to every one, as usual. But follow no advice but mine. Alas! I too
well know what any household comes to, that is troubled by advisers.”

“You shall be obeyed, madame.”

“And you will be satisfied at the result. Send the duke to me.”

“That will not be difficult.”

“Where do you suppose him to be?”

“At my wife’s door, whose levee he is probably awaiting.”

“Very well,” said Anne of Austria, calmly. “Be good enough to tell the
duke that I shall be charmed if he will pay me a visit.”

Philip kissed his mother’s hand, and started off to find the Duke of
Buckingham.

Chapter XVII. Forever!

The Duke of Buckingham, obedient to the queen-mother’s invitation,
presented himself in her apartments half an hour after the departure of
the Duc d’Orleans. When his name was announced by the gentleman-usher in
attendance, the queen, who was sitting with her elbow resting on a table,
and her head buried in her hands, rose, and smilingly received the
graceful and respectful salutation which the duke addressed to her. Anne
of Austria was still beautiful. It is well known that at her then somewhat
advanced age, her long auburn hair, perfectly formed hands, and bright
ruby lips, were still the admiration of all who saw her. On the present
occasion, abandoned entirely to a remembrance which evoked all the past in
her heart, she looked almost as beautiful as in the days of her youth,
when her palace was open to the visits of the Duke of Buckingham’s father,
then a young and impassioned man, as well as an unfortunate prince, who
lived for her alone, and died with her name upon his lips. Anne of Austria
fixed upon Buckingham a look so tender in its expression, that it denoted,
not alone the indulgence of maternal affection, but a gentleness of
expression like the coquetry of a woman who loves.

“Your majesty,” said Buckingham, respectfully, “desired to speak to me.”

“Yes, duke,” said the queen, in English; “will you be good enough to sit
down?”

The favor which Anne of Austria thus extended to the young man, and the
welcome sound of the language of a country from which the duke had been
estranged since his stay in France, deeply affected him. He immediately
conjectured that the queen had a request to make of him. After having
abandoned the first few moments to the irrepressible emotions she
experienced, the queen resumed the smiling air with which she had received
him. “What do you think of France?” she said, in French.

“It is a lovely country, madame,” replied the duke.

“Had you ever seen it before?”

“Once only, madame.”

“But, like all true Englishmen, you prefer England?”

“I prefer my own native land to France,” replied the duke; “but if your
majesty were to ask me which of the two cities, London or Pairs, I should
prefer as a residence, I should be forced to answer Paris.”

Anne of Austria observed the ardent manner with which these words had been
pronounced. “I am told, my lord, you have rich possessions in your own
country, and that you live in a splendid and time-honored place.”

“Those are indeed great advantages and souvenirs,” replied the
queen, alluding, in spite of herself, to recollections from which it is
impossible voluntarily to detach one’s self.

“In fact,” said the duke, yielding to the melancholy influence of this
opening conversation, “sensitive persons live as much in the past or the
future, as in the present.”

“That is very true,” said the queen, in a low tone of voice. “It follows,
then, my lord,” she added, “that you, who are a man of feeling, will soon
quit France in order to shut yourself up with your wealth and your relics
of the past.”

Buckingham raised his head and said, “I think not, madame.”

“What do you mean?”

“On the contrary, I think of leaving England in order to take up my
residence in France.”

It was now Anne of Austria’s turn to exhibit surprise. “Why?” she said.
“Are you not in favor with the new king?”

“Perfectly so, madame, for his majesty’s kindness to me is unbounded.”

“It cannot,” said the queen, “be because your fortune has diminished, for
it is said to be enormous.”

“My income, madame, has never been so large.”

“There is some secret cause, then?”

“No, madame,” said Buckingham, eagerly, “there is nothing secret in my
reason for this determination. I prefer residence in France; I like a
court so distinguished by its refinement and courtesy; I like the
amusements, somewhat serious in their nature, which are not the amusements
of my own country, and which are met with in France.”

Anne of Austria smiled shrewdly. “Amusements of a serious nature?” she
said. “Has your Grace well reflected on their seriousness?” The duke
hesitated. “There is no amusement so serious,” continued the queen, “as to
prevent a man of your rank—”

“Your majesty seems to insist greatly on that point,” interrupted the
duke.

“Do you think so, my lord?”

“If you will forgive me for saying so, it is the second time you have
vaunted the attractions of England at the expense of the delight which all
experience who live in France.”

Anne of Austria approached the young man, and placing her beautiful hand
upon his shoulder, which trembled at the touch, said, “Believe me,
monsieur, nothing can equal a residence in one’s own native country. I
have very frequently had occasion to regret Spain. I have lived long, my
lord, very long for a woman, and I confess to you, that not a year has
passed I have not regretted Spain.”

“Not one year, madame?” said the young duke coldly. “Not one of those
years when you reigned Queen of Beauty—as you still are, indeed?”

“A truce to flattery, duke, for I am old enough to be your mother.” She
emphasized these latter words in a manner, and with a gentleness, which
penetrated Buckingham’s heart. “Yes,” she said, “I am old enough to be
your mother; and for this reason, I will give you a word of advice.”

“That advice being that I should return to London?” he exclaimed.

“Yes, my lord.”

The duke clasped his hands with a terrified gesture, which could not fail
of its effect upon the queen, already disposed to softer feelings by the
tenderness of her own recollections. “It must be so,” added the queen.

“What!” he again exclaimed, “am I seriously told that I must leave,—that
I must exile myself,—that I am to flee at once?”

“Exile yourself, did you say? One would fancy France was your native
country.”

“Madame, the country of those who love is the country of those whom they
love.”

“Not another word, my lord; you forget whom you are addressing.”

Buckingham threw himself on his knees. “Madame, you are the source of
intelligence, of goodness, and of compassion; you are the first person in
this kingdom, not only by your rank, but the first person in the world on
account of your angelic attributes. I have said nothing, madame. Have I,
indeed, said anything you should answer with such a cruel remark? What
have I betrayed?”

“You have betrayed yourself,” said the queen, in a low tone of voice.

“I have said nothing,—I know nothing.”

“You forget you have spoken and thought in the presence of a woman; and
besides—”

“Besides,” said the duke, “no one knows you are listening to me.”

“On the contrary, it is known; you have all the defects and all the
qualities of youth.”

“I have been betrayed or denounced, then?”

“By whom?”

“By those who, at Le Havre, had, with infernal perspicacity, read my heart
like an open book.”

“I do not know whom you mean.”

“M. de Bragelonne, for instance.”

“I know the name without being acquainted with the person to whom it
belongs. M. de Bragelonne has said nothing.”

“Who can it be, then? If any one, madame, had had the boldness to notice
in me that which I do not myself wish to behold—”

“What would you do, duke?”

“There are secrets which kill those who discover them.”

“He, then, who has discovered your secret, madman that you are, still
lives; and, what is more, you will not slay him, for he is armed on all
sides,—he is a husband, a jealous man,—he is the second
gentleman in France,—he is my son, the Duc du Orleans.”

The duke turned pale as death. “You are very cruel, madame,” he said.

“You see, Buckingham,” said Anne of Austria, sadly, “how you pass from one
extreme to another, and fight with shadows, when it would seem so easy to
remain at peace with yourself.”

“If we fight, madame, we die on the field of battle,” replied the young
man, gently, abandoning himself to the most gloomy depression.

Anne ran towards him and took him by the hand. “Villiers,” she said, in
English, with a vehemence of tone which nothing could resist, “what is it
you ask? Do you ask a mother to sacrifice her son,—a queen to
consent to the dishonor of her house? Child that you are, do not dream of
it. What! in order to spare your tears am I to commit these crimes?
Villiers! you speak of the dead; the dead, at least, were full of respect
and submission; they resigned themselves to an order of exile; they
carried their despair away with them in their hearts, like a priceless
possession, because the despair was caused by the woman they loved, and
because death, thus deceptive, was like a gift of a favor conferred upon
them.”

Buckingham rose, his features distorted, and his hands pressed against his
heart. “You are right, madame,” he said, “but those of whom you speak had
received their order of exile from the lips of the one whom they loved;
they were not driven away; they were entreated to leave, and were not
laughed at.”

“No,” murmured Anne of Austria, “they were not forgotten. But who says you
are driven away, or that you are exiled? Who says that your devotion will
not be remembered? I do not speak on any one’s behalf but my own, when I
tell you to leave. Do me this kindness,—grant me this favor; let me,
for this also, be indebted to one of your name.”

“It is for your sake, then, madame?”

“For mine alone.”

“No one whom I shall leave behind me will venture to mock,—no prince
even who shall say, ‘I required it.’”

“Listen to me, duke,” and hereupon the dignified features of the queen
assumed a solemn expression. “I swear to you that no one commands in this
matter but myself. I swear to you that, not only shall no one either laugh
or boast in any way, but no one even shall fail in the respect due to your
rank. Rely upon me, duke, as I rely upon you.”

“You do not explain yourself, madame; my heart is full of bitterness, and
I am in utter despair; no consolation, however gentle and affectionate,
can afford me relief.”

“Do you remember your mother, duke?” replied the queen, with a winning
smile.

“Very slightly, madame; yet I remember how she used to cover me with her
caresses and her tears whenever I wept.”

“Villiers,” murmured the queen, passing her arm round the young man’s
neck, “look upon me as your mother, and believe that no one shall ever
make my son weep.”

“I thank you, madame,” said the young man affected and almost suffocated
by his emotion; “I feel there is still room in my heart for a gentler and
nobler sentiment than love.”

The queen-mother looked at him and pressed his hand. “Go,” she said.

“When must I leave? Command me.”

“At any time that may suit you, my lord,” resumed the queen; “you will
choose your own day of departure. Instead, however, of setting off to-day,
as you would doubtless wish to do, or to-morrow, as others may have
expected, leave the day after to-morrow, in the evening; but announce
to-day that it is your wish to leave.”

“My wish?” murmured the young duke.

“Yes, duke.”

“And shall I never return to France?”

Anne of Austria reflected for a moment, seemingly absorbed in sad and
serious thought. “It would be a consolation for me,” she said, “if you
were to return on the day when I shall be carried to my final
resting-place at Saint-Dennis beside the king, my husband.”

“Madame, you are goodness itself; the tide of prosperity is setting in on
you; your cup brims over with happiness, and many long years are yet
before you.”

“In that case you will not come for some time, then,” said the queen,
endeavoring to smile.

“I shall not return,” said Buckingham, “young as I am. Death does not
reckon by years; it is impartial; some die young, some reach old age.”

“I will not harbor any sorrowful ideas, duke. Let me comfort you; return
in two years. I perceive from your face that the very idea which saddens
you so much now, will have disappeared before six months have passed, and
will be not only dead but forgotten in the period of absence I have
assigned you.”

“I think you judged me better a little while ago, madame,” replied the
young man, “when you said that time is powerless against members of the
family of Buckingham.”

“Silence,” said the queen, kissing the duke upon the forehead with an
affection she could not restrain. “Go, go; spare me and forget yourself no
longer. I am the queen; you are the subject of the king of England; King
Charles awaits your return. Adieu, Villiers,—farewell.”

“Forever!” replied the young man, and he fled, endeavoring to master his
emotions.

Anne leaned her head upon her hands, and then looking at herself in the
glass, murmured, “It has been truly said, that a woman who has truly loved
is always young, and that the bloom of the girl of twenty years ever lies
concealed in some secret cloister of the heart.” 1

Chapter XVIII. King Louis XIV. does not think Mademoiselle de la Valliere
either rich enough or pretty enough for a Gentleman of the Rank of the
Vicomte de Bragelonne.

Raoul and the Comte de la Fere reached Paris the evening of the same day
on which Buckingham had held the conversation with the queen-mother. The
count had scarcely arrived, when, through Raoul, he solicited an audience
of the king. His majesty had passed a portion of the morning in looking
over, with madame and the ladies of the court, various goods of Lyons
manufacture, of which he had made his sister-in-law a present. A court
dinner had succeeded, then cards, and afterwards, according to his usual
custom, the king, leaving the card-tables at eight o’clock, passed into
his cabinet in order to work with M. Colbert and M. Fouquet. Raoul entered
the ante-chamber at the very moment the two ministers quitted it, and the
king, perceiving him through the half-closed door, said, “What do you
want, M. de Bragelonne?”

The young man approached: “An audience, sire,” he replied, “for the Comte
de la Fere, who has just arrived from Blois, and is most anxious to have
an interview with your majesty.”

“I have an hour to spare between cards and supper,” said the king. “Is the
Comte de la Fere at hand?”

“He is below, and awaits your majesty’s permission.”

“Let him come up at once,” said the king, and five minutes afterwards
Athos entered the presence of Louis XIV. He was received by the king with
that gracious kindness of manner which Louis, with a tact beyond his
years, reserved for the purpose of gaining those who were not to be
conquered by ordinary favors. “Let me hope, comte,” said the king, “that
you have come to ask me for something.”

“I will not conceal from your majesty,” replied the comte, “that I am
indeed come for that purpose.”

“That is well,” said the king, joyously.

“It is not for myself, sire.”

“So much the worse; but, at least, I will do for your protege what
you refuse to permit me to do for you.”

“Your majesty encourages me. I have come to speak on behalf of the Vicomte
de Bragelonne.”

“It is the same as if you spoke on your own behalf, comte.”

“Not altogether so, sire. I am desirous of obtaining from your majesty
that which I cannot ask for myself. The vicomte thinks of marrying.”

“He is still very young; but that does not matter. He is an eminently
distinguished man; I will choose a wife for him.”

“He has already chosen one, sire, and only awaits your consent.”

“It is only a question, then, of signing the marriage-contract?” Athos
bowed. “Has he chose a wife whose fortune and position accord with your
own anticipation?”

Athos hesitated for a moment. “His affirmed wife is of good birth, but has
no fortune.”

“That is a misfortune we can remedy.”

“You overwhelm me with gratitude, sire; but your majesty will permit me to
offer a remark?”

“Do so, comte.”

“Your majesty seems to intimate an intention of giving a marriage-portion
to this young lady.”

“Certainly.”

“I should regret, sire, if the step I have taken towards your majesty
should be attended by this result.”

“I seem to know that name,” said the king, as if reflecting; “there was a
Marquis de la Valliere.”

“Yes, sire, it is his daughter.”

“But he died, and his widow married again M. de Saint-Remy, I think,
steward of the dowager Madame’s household.”

“Your majesty is correctly informed.”

“More than that, the young lady has lately become one of the princess’s
maids of honor.”

“Your majesty is better acquainted with her history than am I.”

The king again reflected, and glancing at the comte’s anxious countenance,
said: “The young lady does not seem to me to be very pretty, comte.”

“I am not quite sure,” replied Athos.

“I have seen her, but she hardly struck me as being so.”

“She seems to be a good and modest girl, but has little beauty, sire.”

“Beautiful fair hair, however.”

“I think so.”

“And her blue eyes are tolerably good.”

“Yes, sire.”

“With regard to her beauty, then, the match is but an ordinary one. Now
for the money side of the question.”

“Fifteen to twenty thousand francs dowry at the very outset, sire; the
lovers are disinterested enough; for myself, I care little for money.”

“For superfluity, you mean; but a needful amount is of importance. With
fifteen thousand francs, without landed property, a woman cannot live at
court. We will make up the deficiency; I will do it for De Bragelonne.”
The king again remarked the coldness with which Athos received the remark.

“Let us pass from the question of money to that of rank,” said Louis XIV.;
“the daughter of the Marquis de la Valliere, that is well enough; but
there is that excellent Saint-Remy, who somewhat damages the credit of the
family; and you, comte, are rather particular, I believe, about your own
family.”

“Sire, I no longer hold to anything but my devotion to your majesty.”

The king again paused. “A moment, comte. You have surprised me in no
little degree from the beginning of your conversation. You came to ask me
to authorize a marriage, and you seem greatly disturbed in having to make
the request. Nay, pardon me, comte, but I am rarely deceived, young as I
am; for while with some persons I place my friendship at the disposal of
my understanding, with others I call my distrust to my aid, by which my
discernment is increased. I repeat, that you do not prefer your request as
though you wished it success.”

“Well, sire, that is true.”

“I do not understand you, then; refuse.”

“Nay, sire; I love De Bragelonne with my whole heart; he is smitten with
Mademoiselle de la Valliere, he weaves dreams of bliss for the future; I
am not one who is willing to destroy the illusions of youth. This marriage
is objectionable to me, but I implore your majesty to consent to it
forthwith, and thus make Raoul happy.”

“Tell me, comte, is she in love with him?”

“If your majesty requires me to speak candidly, I do not believe in
Mademoiselle de la Valliere’s affection; the delight at being at court,
the honor of being in the service of Madame, counteract in her head
whatever affection she may happen to have in her heart; it is a marriage
similar to many others which already exist at court; but De Bragelonne
wishes it, and so let it be.”

“And yet you do not resemble those easy-tempered fathers who volunteer as
stepping-stones for their children,” said the king.

“I am determined enough against the viciously disposed, but not so against
men of upright character. Raoul is suffering; he is in great distress of
mind; his disposition, naturally light and cheerful, has become gloomy and
melancholy. I do not wish to deprive your majesty of the services he may
be able to render.”

“I understand you,” said the king; “and what is more, I understand your
heart, too, comte.”

“There is no occasion, therefore,” replied the comte, “to tell your
majesty that my object is to make these children, or rather Raoul, happy.”

“And I, too, as much as yourself, comte, wish to secure M. de Bragelonne’s
happiness.”

“I only await your majesty’s signature. Raoul will have the honor of
presenting himself before your majesty to receive your consent.”

“You are mistaken, comte,” said the king, firmly; “I have just said that I
desire to secure M. de Bragelonne’s happiness, and from the present
moment, therefore, I oppose his marriage.”

“But, sire,” exclaimed Athos, “your majesty has promised!”

“Not so, comte, I did not promise you, for it is opposed to my own views.”

“I appreciate your majesty’s considerate and generous intentions on my
behalf; but I take the liberty of recalling to you that I undertook to
approach you as an ambassador.”

“An ambassador, comte, frequently asks, but does not always obtain what he
asks.”

“But, sire, it will be such a blow for De Bragelonne.”

“My hand shall deal the blow; I will speak to the vicomte.”

“Love, sire, is overwhelming in its might.”

“Love can be resisted, comte. I myself can assure you of that.”

“When one has the soul of a king,—your own, for instance, sire.”

“Do not make yourself uneasy on the subject. I have certain views for De
Bragelonne. I do not say that he shall not marry Mademoiselle de la
Valliere, but I do not wish him to marry so young; I do not wish him to
marry her until she has acquired a fortune; and he, on his side, no less
deserves favor, such as I wish to confer upon him. In a word, comte, I
wish them to wait.”

“Yet once more, sire.”

“Comte, you told me you came here to request a favor.”

“Assuredly, sire.”

“Grant me one, then, instead; let us speak no longer upon this matter. It
is probable that, before long, war may be declared. I require men about me
who are unfettered. I should hesitate to send under fire a married man, or
a father of a family. I should hesitate also, on De Bragelonne’s account,
to endow with a fortune, without some sound reason for it, a young girl, a
perfect stranger; such an act would sow jealousy amongst my nobility.”
Athos bowed, and remained silent.

“Is that all you wished to ask me?” added Louis XIV.

“Absolutely all, sire; and I take my leave of your majesty. Is it,
however, necessary that I should inform Raoul?”

“Spare yourself the trouble and annoyance. Tell the vicomte that at my levee
to-morrow morning I will speak to him. I shall expect you this evening,
comte, to join my card-table.”

“I am in traveling-costume, sire.”

“A day will come, I hope, when you will leave me no more. Before long,
comte, the monarchy will be established in such a manner as to enable me
to offer a worthy hospitality to men of your merit.”

“Provided, sire, a monarch reigns grandly in the hearts of his subjects,
the palace he inhabits matters little, since he is worshipped in a
temple.” With these words Athos left the cabinet, and found De Bragelonne,
who was awaiting him anxiously.

“Well, monsieur?” said the young man.

“The king, Raoul, is well intentioned towards us both; not, perhaps, in
the sense you suppose, but he is kind, and generously disposed to our
house.”

“You have bad news to communicate to me, monsieur,” said the young man,
turning very pale.

“The king himself will inform you to-morrow morning that it is not bad
news.”

“The king has not signed, however?”

“The king wishes himself to settle the terms of the contract, and he
desires to make it so grand that he requires time for consideration. Throw
the blame rather on your own impatience, than on the king’s good feelings
towards you.”

Raoul, in utter consternation, on account of his knowledge of the count’s
frankness as well as his diplomacy, remained plunged in dull and gloomy
stupor.

“Will you not go with me to my lodgings?” said Athos.

“I beg your pardon, monsieur; I will follow you,” he stammered out,
following Athos down the staircase.

“Since I am here,” said Athos, suddenly, “cannot I see M. d’Artagnan?”

“Shall I show you his apartments?” said De Bragelonne.

“Do so.”

“They are on the opposite staircase.”

They altered their course, but on reaching the landing of the grand
staircase, Raoul perceived a servant in the Comte de Guiche’s livery, who
ran towards him as soon as he heard his voice.

“What is it?” said Raoul.

“This note, monsieur. My master heard of your return and wrote to you
without delay; I have been looking for you for the last half-hour.”

“Dear Raoul,” wrote the Comte de Guiche, “I have an affair in hand which
requires immediate attention; I know you have returned; come to me as soon
as possible.”

Hardly had he finished reading it, when a servant in the livery of the
Duke of Buckingham, turning out of the gallery, recognized Raoul, and
approached him respectfully, saying, “From his Grace, monsieur.”

“Well, Raoul, as I see you are already as busy as a general of an army, I
shall leave you, and will find M. d’Artagnan myself.”

“You will excuse me, I trust,” said Raoul.

“Yes, yes, I excuse you; adieu, Raoul; you will find me at my apartments
until to-morrow; during the day I may set out for Blois, unless I have
orders to the contrary.”

“I shall present my respects to you to-morrow, monsieur.”

As soon as Athos had left, Raoul opened Buckingham’s letter.

“Monsieur de Bragelonne,” it ran, “You are, of all the Frenchmen I have
known, the one with whom I am most pleased; I am about to put your
friendship to the proof. I have received a certain message, written in
very good French. As I am an Englishman, I am afraid of not comprehending
it very clearly. The letter has a good name attached to it, and that is
all I can tell you. Will you be good enough to come and see me? for I am
told you have arrived from Blois.

“Your devoted

“VILLIERS, Duke of Buckingham.”

“I am going now to see your master,” said Raoul to De Guiche’s servant, as
he dismissed him; “and I shall be with the Duke of Buckingham in an hour,”
he added, dismissing with these words the duke’s messenger.

Chapter XIX. Sword-Thrusts in the Water.

Raoul, on betaking himself to De Guiche, found him conversing with De
Wardes and Manicamp. De Wardes, since the affair of the barricade, had
treated Raoul as a stranger; they behaved as if they were not acquainted.
As Raoul entered, De Guiche walked up to him; and Raoul, as he grasped his
friend’s hand, glanced rapidly at his two companions, hoping to be able to
read on their faces what was passing in their minds. De Wardes was cold
and impenetrable; Manicamp seemed absorbed in the contemplation of some
trimming to his dress. De Guiche led Raoul to an adjoining cabinet, and
made him sit down, saying, “How well you look!”

“That is singular,” replied Raoul, “for I am far from being in good
spirits.”

“It is your case, then, Raoul, as it is my own,—our love affairs do
not progress.”

“So much the better, count, as far as you are concerned; the worst
news would be good news.”

“In that case do not distress yourself, for, not only am I very unhappy,
but, what is more, I see others about me who are happy.”

“Really, I do not understand you,” replied Raoul; “explain yourself.”

“You will soon learn. I have tried, but in vain, to overcome the feeling
you saw dawn in me, increase, and take entire possession of me. I have
summoned all your advice and my own strength to my aid. I have well
weighed the unfortunate affair in which I have embarked; I have sounded
its depths; that it is an abyss, I am aware, but it matters little for I
shall pursue my own course.”

“This is madness, De Guiche! you cannot advance another step without
risking your own ruin to-day, perhaps your life to-morrow.”

“Whatever may happen, I have done with reflections; listen.”

“And you hope to succeed; you believe that Madame will love you?”

“Raoul, I believe nothing; I hope, because hope exists in man, and never
abandons him until death.”

“But, admitting that you obtain the happiness you covet, even then, you
are more certainly lost than if you had failed in obtaining it.”

“I beseech you, Raoul, not to interrupt me any more; you could never
convince me, for I tell you beforehand, I do not wish to be convinced; I
have gone so far I cannot recede; I have suffered so much, death itself
would be a boon. I no longer love to madness, Raoul, I am being engulfed
by a whirlpool of jealousy.”

Raoul struck his hands together with an expression resembling anger.
“Well?” said he.

“Well or ill matters little. This is what I claim from you, my friend, my
almost brother. During the last three days Madame has been living in a
perfect intoxication of gayety. On the first day, I dared not look at her;
I hated her for not being as unhappy as myself. The next day I could not
bear her out of my sight; and she, Raoul—at least I thought I
remarked it—she looked at me, if not with pity, at least with
gentleness. But between her looks and mine, a shadow intervened; another’s
smile invited hers. Beside her horse another’s always gallops, which is
not mine; in her ear another’s caressing voice, not mine, unceasingly
vibrates. Raoul, for three days past my brain has been on fire; flame, not
blood, courses through my veins. That shadow must be driven away, that
smile must be quenched; that voice must be silenced.”

“You wish Monsieur’s death,” exclaimed Raoul.

“No, no, I am not jealous of the husband; I am jealous of the lover.”

“Of the lover?” said Raoul.

“Have you not observed it, you who were formerly so keen-sighted?”

“Are you jealous of the Duke of Buckingham?”

“To the very death.”

“Again jealous?”

“This time the affair will be easy to arrange between us; I have taken the
initiative, and have sent him a letter.”

“It was you, then, who wrote to him?”

“How do you know that?”

“I know it, because he told me so. Look at this;” and he handed De Guiche
the letter he had received nearly at the same moment as his own. De Guiche
read it eagerly, and said, “He is a brave man, and more than that, a
gallant man.”

“Most certainly the duke is a gallant man; I need not ask if you wrote to
him in a similar style.”

“He will show you my letter when you call on him on my behalf.”

“But that is almost out of the question.”

“What is?”

“That I shall call on him for that purpose.”

“Why so?”

“The duke consults me as you do.”

“I suppose you will give me the preference! Listen to me, Raoul, I
wish you to tell his Grace—it is a very simple matter—that
to-day, to-morrow, the following day, or any other day he may choose, I
will meet him at Vincennes.”

“Reflect, De Guiche.”

“I thought I told you I have reflected.”

“The duke is a stranger here; he is on a mission which renders his person
inviolable.... Vincennes is close to the Bastile.”

“The consequences concern me.”

“But the motive for this meeting? What motive do you wish me to assign?”

“Be perfectly easy on that score, he will not ask any. The duke must be as
sick of me as I am of him. I implore you, therefore, seek the duke, and if
it is necessary to entreat him, to accept my offer, I will do so.”

“That is useless. The duke has already informed me that he wishes to speak
to me. The duke is now playing cards with the king. Let us both go there.
I will draw him aside in the gallery; you will remain aloof. Two words
will be sufficient.”

“That is well arranged. I will take De Wardes to keep me in countenance.”

“Why not Manicamp? De Wardes can join us at any time; we can leave him
here.”

“Yes, that is true.”

“He knows nothing?”

“Positively nothing. You continue still on an unfriendly footing, then?”

“Has he not told you anything?”

“Nothing.”

“I do not like the man, and, as I never liked him, the result is,
that I am on no worse terms with him to-day than I was yesterday.”

“Let us go, then.”

The four descended the stairs. De Guiche’s carriage was waiting at the
door, and took them to the Palais Royal. As they were going along, Raoul
was engaged in devising his scheme of action. The sole depositary of two
secrets, he did not despair of concluding some arrangement between the two
parties. He knew the influence he exercised over Buckingham, and the
ascendency he had acquired over De Guiche, and affairs did not look
utterly hopeless. On their arrival in the gallery, dazzling with the blaze
of light, where the most beautiful and illustrious women of the court
moved to and fro, like stars in their own atmosphere, Raoul could not
prevent himself for a moment forgetting De Guiche in order to seek out
Louise, who, amidst her companions, like a dove completely fascinated,
gazed long and fixedly upon the royal circle, which glittered with jewels
and gold. All its members were standing, the king alone being seated.
Raoul perceived Buckingham, who was standing a few paces from Monsieur, in
a group of French and English, who were admiring his aristocratic carriage
and the incomparable magnificence of his costume. Some of the older
courtiers remembered having seen his father, but their recollections were
not prejudicial to the son.

Buckingham was conversing with Fouquet, who was talking with him aloud
about Belle-Isle. “I cannot speak to him at present,” said Raoul.

“See, our deliverer approaches,” said Raoul, perceiving D’Artagnan, who,
magnificently dressed in his new uniform of captain of the musketeers, had
just made his entry in the gallery; and he advanced towards D’Artagnan.

“The Comte de la Fere has been looking for you, chevalier,” said Raoul.

“Yes,” replied D’Artagnan, “I have just left him.”

“I thought you would have passed a portion of the evening together.”

“We have arranged to meet again.”

As he answered Raoul, his absent looks were directed on all sides, as if
seeking some one in the crowd or looking for something in the room.
Suddenly his gaze became fixed, like that of an eagle on its prey. Raoul
followed the direction of his glance, and noticed that De Guiche and
D’Artagnan saluted each other, but he could not distinguish at whom the
captain’s lingering and haughty glance was aimed.

“Chevalier,” said Raoul, “there is no one here but yourself who can render
me a service.”

“What is it, my dear vicomte?”

“It is simply to go and interrupt the Duke of Buckingham, to whom I wish
to say two words, and, as the duke is conversing with M. Fouquet, you
understand that it would not do for me to throw myself into the
middle of the conversation.”

“Ah, ah, is M. Fouquet there?” inquired D’Artagnan.

“Do you not see him?”

“Yes, now I do. But do you think I have a greater right than you have?”

“You are a more important personage.”

“Yes, you’re right; I am captain of the musketeers; I have had the post
promised me so long, and have enjoyed it for so brief a period, that I am
always forgetting my dignity.”

“You will do me this service, will you not?”

“M. Fouquet—the deuce!”

“Are you not on good terms with him?”

“It is rather he who may not be on good terms with me; however, since it
must be done some day or another—”

“Stay; I think he is looking at you; or is it likely that it might be—”

“No, no; don’t deceive yourself, it is indeed me for whom this honor is
intended.”

“The opportunity is a good one, then?”

“Do you think so?”

“Pray go.”

“Well, I will.”

De Guiche had not removed his eyes from Raoul, who made a sign to him that
all was arranged. D’Artagnan walked straight up to the group, and civilly
saluted M. Fouquet as well as the others.

“Good evening, M. d’Artagnan; we were speaking of Belle-Isle,” said
Fouquet, with that usage of society, and that perfect knowledge of the
language of looks, which require half a lifetime thoroughly to acquire,
and which some persons, notwithstanding all their study, never attain.

“M. Fouquet has just told us that he had presented it to the king,” said
Buckingham.

“Do you know Belle-Isle, chevalier?” inquired Fouquet.

“I have only been there once,” replied D’Artagnan, with readiness and
good-humor.

“Did you remain there long?”

“Scarcely a day.”

“Did you see much of it while you were there?”

“All that could be seen in a day.”

“A great deal can be seen with observation as keen as yours,” said
Fouquet; at which D’Artagnan bowed.

During this Raoul made a sign to Buckingham. “M. Fouquet,” said
Buckingham, “I leave the captain with you, he is more learned than I am in
bastions, scarps, and counter-scarps, and I will join one of my friends,
who has just beckoned me.” Saying this, Buckingham disengaged himself from
the group, and advanced towards Raoul, stopping for a moment at the table
where the queen-mother, the young queen, and the king were playing
together.

“Now, Raoul,” said De Guiche, “there he is; be firm and quick.”

Buckingham, having made some complimentary remark to Madame, continued his
way towards Raoul, who advanced to meet him, while De Guiche remained in
his place, though he followed him with his eyes. The maneuver was so
arranged that the young men met in an open space which was left vacant,
between the groups of players and the gallery, where they walked, stopping
now and then for the purpose of saying a few words to some of the graver
courtiers who were walking there. At the moment when the two lines were
about to unite, they were broken by a third. It was Monsieur who advanced
towards the Duke of Buckingham. Monsieur had his most engaging smile on
his red and perfumed lips.

“My dear duke,” said he, with the most affectionate politeness; “is it
really true what I have just been told?”

Buckingham turned round; he had not noticed Monsieur approach; but had
merely heard his voice. He started in spite of his command over himself,
and a slight pallor overspread his face. “Monseigneur,” he asked, “what
has been told you that surprises you so much?”

“That which throws me into despair, and will, in truth, be a real cause of
mourning for the whole court.”

“Your highness is very kind, for I perceive that you allude to my
departure.”

“Precisely.”

Guiche had overheard the conversation from where he was standing, and
started in his turn. “His departure,” he murmured. “What does he say?”

Philip continued with the same gracious air, “I can easily conceive,
monsieur, why the king of Great Britain recalls you; we all know that King
Charles II., who appreciates true gentlemen, cannot dispense with you. But
it cannot be supposed we can let you go without great regret; and I beg
you to receive the expression of my own.”

“Believe me, monseigneur,” said the duke, “that if I quit the court of
France—”

“Because you are recalled; but, if you suppose the expression of my own
wish on the subject might possibly have any influence with the king, I
will gladly volunteer to entreat his majesty Charles II. to leave you with
us a little while longer.”

“I am overwhelmed, monseigneur, by so much kindness,” replied Buckingham;
“but I have received positive commands. My residence in France was
limited; I have prolonged it at the risk of displeasing my gracious
sovereign. It is only this very day that I recollected I ought to have set
off four days ago.”

“Indeed,” said Monsieur.

“Yes; but,” added Buckingham, raising his voice in such a manner that the
princess could hear him,—“but I resemble that dweller in the East,
who turned mad, and remained so for several days, owing to a delightful
dream that he had had, but who one day awoke, if not completely cured, in
some respects rational at least. The court of France has its intoxicating
properties, which are not unlike this dream, my lord; but at last I wake
and leave it. I shall be unable, therefore, to prolong my residence, as
your highness has so kindly invited me to do.”

“When do you leave?” inquired Philip, with an expression full of interest.

“To-morrow, monseigneur. My carriages have been ready for three days.”

The Duc d’Orleans made a movement of the head, which seemed to signify,
“Since you are determined, duke, there is nothing to be said.” Buckingham
returned the gesture, concealing under a smile a contraction of his heart;
and then Monsieur moved away in the same direction by which he had
approached. At the same moment, however, De Guiche advanced from the
opposite direction. Raoul feared that the impatient young man might
possibly make the proposition himself, and hurried forth before him.

“No, no, Raoul, all is useless now,” said Guiche, holding both his hands
towards the duke, and leading him behind a column. “Forgive me, duke, for
what I wrote to you, I was mad; give me back my letter.”

“It is true,” said the duke, “you cannot owe me a grudge any longer now.”

“Forgive me, duke; my friendship, my lasting friendship is yours.”

“There is certainly no reason why you should bear me any ill-will from the
moment I leave her never to see her again.”

Raoul heard these words, and comprehending that his presence was now
useless between the young men, who had now only friendly words to
exchange, withdrew a few paces; a movement which brought him closer to De
Wardes, who was conversing with the Chevalier de Lorraine respecting the
departure of Buckingham. “A strategic retreat,” said De Wardes.

“Why so?”

“Because the dear duke saves a sword-thrust by it.” At which reply both
laughed.

Raoul, indignant, turned round frowningly, flushed with anger and his lip
curling with disdain. The Chevalier de Lorraine turned on his heel, but De
Wardes remained and waited.

“You will not break yourself of the habit,” said Raoul to De Wardes, “of
insulting the absent; yesterday it was M. d’Artagnan, to-day it is the
Duke of Buckingham.”

“You know very well, monsieur,” returned De Wardes, “that I sometimes
insult those who are present.”

De Wardes was close to Raoul, their shoulders met, their faces approached,
as if to mutually inflame each other by the fire of their looks and of
their anger. It could be seen that the one was at the height of fury, the
other at the end of his patience. Suddenly a voice was heard behind them
full of grace and courtesy, saying, “I believe I heard my name
pronounced.”

They turned round and saw D’Artagnan, who, with a smiling eye and a
cheerful face, had just placed his hand on De Wardes’s shoulder. Raoul
stepped back to make room for the musketeer. De Wardes trembled from head
to foot, turned pale, but did not move. D’Artagnan, still with the same
smile, took the place which Raoul had abandoned to him.

“Thank you, my dear Raoul,” he said. “M. de Wardes, I wish to talk with
you. Do not leave us, Raoul; every one can hear what I have to say to M.
de Wardes.” His smile immediately faded away, and his glace became cold
and sharp as a sword.

“I am at your orders, monsieur,” said De Wardes.

“For a very long time,” resumed D’Artagnan, “I have sought an opportunity
of conversing with you; to-day is the first time I have found it. The
place is badly chosen, I admit, but you will perhaps have the goodness to
accompany me to my apartments, which are on the staircase at the end of
this gallery.”

“I follow you, monsieur,” said De Wardes.

“Are you alone here?” said D’Artagnan.

“No; I have M. Manicamp and M. de Guiche, two of my friends.”

“That’s well,” said D’Artagnan; “but two persons are not sufficient; you
will be able to find a few others, I trust.”

“Certainly,” said the young man, who did not know what object D’Artagnan
had in view. “As many as you please.”

“Are they friends?”

“Yes, monsieur.”

“Real friends?”

“No doubt of it.”

“Very well, get a good supply, then. Do you come, too, Raoul; bring M. de
Guiche and the Duke of Buckingham.”

“What a disturbance,” replied De Wardes, attempting to smile. The captain
slightly signed to him with his hand, as though to recommend him to be
patient, and then led the way to his apartments. 2

Chapter XX. Sword-Thrusts in the Water (concluded).

D’Artagnan’s apartment was not unoccupied; for the Comte de la Fere,
seated in the recess of a window, awaited him. “Well,” said he to
D’Artagnan, as he saw him enter.

“Well,” said the latter, “M. de Wardes has done me the honor to pay me a
visit, in company with some of his own friends, as well as of ours.” In
fact, behind the musketeer appeared De Wardes and Manicamp, followed by De
Guiche and Buckingham, who looked surprised, not knowing what was expected
of them. Raoul was accompanied by two or three gentlemen; and, as he
entered, glanced round the room, and perceiving the count, he went and
placed himself by his side. D’Artagnan received his visitors with all the
courtesy he was capable of; he preserved his unmoved and unconcerned look.
All the persons present were men of distinction, occupying posts of honor
and credit at the court. After he had apologized to each of them for any
inconvenience he might have put them to, he turned towards De Wardes, who,
in spite of his customary self-command, could not prevent his face
betraying some surprise mingled with not a little uneasiness.

“Now, monsieur,” said D’Artagnan, “since we are no longer within the
precincts of the king’s palace, and since we can speak out without failing
in respect to propriety, I will inform you why I have taken the liberty to
request you to visit me here, and why I have invited these gentlemen to be
present at the same time. My friend, the Comte de la Fere, has acquainted
me with the injurious reports you are spreading about myself. You have
stated that you regard me as your mortal enemy, because I was, so you
affirm, that of your father.”

“Perfectly true, monsieur, I have said so,” replied De Wardes, whose
pallid face became slightly tinged with color.

“You accuse me, therefore, of a crime, or a fault, or of some mean and
cowardly act. Have the goodness to state your charge against me in precise
terms.”

“In the presence of witnesses?”

“Most certainly in the presence of witnesses; and you see I have selected
them as being experienced in affairs of honor.”

“You do not appreciate my delicacy, monsieur. I have accused you, it is
true; but I have kept the nature of the accusation a perfect secret. I
entered into no details; but have rested satisfied by expressing my hatred
in the presence of those on whom a duty was almost imposed to acquaint you
with it. You have not taken the discreetness I have shown into
consideration, although you were interested in remaining silent. I can
hardly recognize your habitual prudence in that, M. d’Artagnan.”

D’Artagnan, who was quietly biting the corner of his moustache, said, “I
have already had the honor to beg you to state the particulars of the
grievances you say you have against me.”

“Aloud?”

“Certainly, aloud.”

“In that case, I will speak.”

“Speak, monsieur,” said D’Artagnan, bowing; “we are all listening to you.”

“Well, monsieur, it is not a question of a personal injury towards myself,
but one towards my father.”

“That you have already stated.”

“Yes; but there are certain subjects which are only approached with
hesitation.”

“If that hesitation, in your case, really does exist, I entreat you to
overcome it.”

“Even if it refer to a disgraceful action?”

“Yes; in every and any case.”

Those who were present at this scene had, at first, looked at each other
with a good deal of uneasiness. They were reassured, however, when they
saw that D’Artagnan manifested no emotion whatever.

De Wardes still maintained the same unbroken silence. “Speak, monsieur,”
said the musketeer; “you see you are keeping us waiting.”

“Listen, then:—My father loved a lady of noble birth, and this lady
loved my father.” D’Artagnan and Athos exchanged looks. De Wardes
continued: “M. d’Artagnan found some letters which indicated a rendezvous,
substituted himself, under disguise, for the person who was expected, and
took advantage of the darkness.”

“That is perfectly true,” said D’Artagnan.

A slight murmur was heard from those present. “Yes, I was guilty of that
dishonorable action. You should have added, monsieur, since you are so
impartial, that, at the period when the circumstance which you have just
related happened, I was not one-and-twenty years of age.”

A renewed murmur was heard, but this time of astonishment, and almost of
doubt.

“It was a most shameful deception, I admit,” said D’Artagnan, “and I have
not waited for M. de Wardes’s reproaches to reproach myself for it, and
very bitterly, too. Age has, however, made me more reasonable, and, above
all, more upright; and this injury has been atoned for by a long and
lasting regret. But I appeal to you, gentlemen; this affair took place in
1626, at a period, happily for yourselves, known to you by tradition only,
at a period when love was not over-scrupulous, when consciences did not
distill, as in the present day, poison and bitterness. We were young
soldiers, always fighting, or being attacked, our swords always in our
hands, or at least ready to be drawn from their sheaths. Death then always
stared us in the face, war hardened us, and the cardinal pressed us
sorely. I have repented of it, and more than that—I still repent it,
M. de Wardes.”

“I can well understand that, monsieur, for the action itself needed
repentance; but you were not the less the cause of that lady’s disgrace.
She, of whom you have been speaking, covered with shame, borne down by the
affront you brought upon her, fled, quitted France, and no one ever knew
what became of her.”

“Stay,” said the Comte de la Fere, stretching his hand towards De Wardes,
with a peculiar smile upon his face, “you are mistaken; she was seen; and
there are persons even now present, who, having often heard her spoken of,
will easily recognize her by the description I am about to give. She was
about five-and-twenty years of age, slender in form, of a pale complexion,
and fair-haired; she was married in England.”

“Married?” exclaimed De Wardes.

“So, you were not aware she was married? You see we are far better
informed than yourself. Do you happen to know she was usually styled ‘My
Lady,’ without the addition of any name to that description?”

“Yes, I know that.”

“Good Heavens!” murmured Buckingham.

“Very well, monsieur. That woman, who came from England, returned to
England after having thrice attempted M. d’Artagnan’s life. That was but
just, you will say, since M. d’Artagnan had insulted her. But that which
was not just was, that, when in England, this woman, by her seductions,
completely enslaved a young man in the service of Lord de Winter, by name
Felton. You change color, my lord,” said Athos, turning to the Duke of
Buckingham, “and your eyes kindle with anger and sorrow. Let your Grace
finish the recital, then, and tell M. de Wardes who this woman was who
placed the knife in the hand of your father’s murderer.”

A cry escaped from the lips of all present. The young duke passed his
handkerchief across his forehead, which was covered with perspiration. A
dead silence ensued among the spectators.

“You see, M. de Wardes,” said D’Artagnan, whom this recital had impressed
more and more, as his own recollection revived as Athos spoke, “you see
that my crime did not cause the destruction of any one’s soul, and that
the soul in question may fairly be considered to have been altogether lost
before my regret. It is, however, an act of conscience on my part. Now
this matter is settled, therefore, it remains for me to ask, with the
greatest humility, your forgiveness for this shameless action, as most
certainly I should have asked it of your father, if he were still alive,
and if I had met him after my return to France, subsequent to the death of
King Charles I.”

“No, gentlemen,” said the captain. “And now, M. de Wardes, I hope all is
finished between us, and that you will have no further occasion to speak
ill of me again. Do you consider it completely settled?”

De Wardes bowed, and muttered to himself inarticulately.

“I trust also,” said D’Artagnan, approaching the young man closely, “that
you will no longer speak ill of any one, as it seems you have the
unfortunate habit of doing; for a man so puritanically conscientious as
you are, who can reproach an old soldier for a youthful freak
five-and-thirty years after it happened, will allow me to ask whether you,
who advocate such excessive purity of conscience, will undertake on your
side to do nothing contrary either to conscience or the principle of
honor. And now, listen attentively to what I am going to say, M. de
Wardes, in conclusion. Take care that no tale, with which your name may be
associated, reaches my ear.”

“Monsieur,” said De Wardes, “it is useless threatening to no purpose.”

“I have not yet finished, M. de Wardes, and you must listen to me still
further.” The circle of listeners, full of eager curiosity, drew closer.
“You spoke just now of the honor of a woman, and of the honor of your
father. We were glad to hear you speak in that manner; for it is pleasing
to think that such a sentiment of delicacy and rectitude, and which did
not exist, it seems, in our minds, lives in our children; and it is
delightful, too, to see a young man, at an age when men from habit become
the destroyers of the honor of women, respect and defend it.”

De Wardes bit his lip and clenched his hands, evidently much disturbed to
learn how this discourse, the commencement of which was announced in so
threatening a manner, would terminate.

“How did it happen, then, that you allowed yourself to say to M. de
Bragelonne that he did not know who his mother was?”

Raoul’s eyes flashed, as, darting forward, he exclaimed,—“Chevalier,
this is a personal affair of my own!” At which exclamation, a smile, full
of malice, passed across De Wardes’s face.

D’Artagnan put Raoul aside, saying,—“Do not interrupt me, young
man.” And looking at De Wardes in an authoritative manner, he continued:—“I
am now dealing with a matter which cannot be settled by means of the
sword. I discuss it before men of honor, all of whom have more than once
had their swords in their hands in affairs of honor. I selected them
expressly. These gentlemen well know that every secret for which men fight
ceases to be a secret. I again put my question to M. de Wardes. What was
the subject of conversation when you offended this young man, in offending
his father and mother at the same time?”

“It seems to me,” returned De Wardes, “that liberty of speech is allowed,
when it is supported by every means which a man of courage has at his
disposal.”

“Tell me what the means are by which a man of courage can sustain a
slanderous expression.”

“The sword.”

“You fail, not only in logic, in your argument, but in religion and honor.
You expose the lives of many others, without referring to your own, which
seems to be full of hazard. Besides, fashions pass away, monsieur, and the
fashion of duelling has passed away, without referring in any way to the
edicts of his majesty which forbid it. Therefore, in order to be
consistent with your own chivalrous notions, you will at once apologize to
M. de Bragelonne; you will tell him how much you regret having spoken so
lightly, and that the nobility and purity of his race are inscribed, not
in his heart alone, but still more in every action of his life. You will
do and say this, M. de Wardes, as I, an old officer, did and said just now
to your boy’s moustache.”

“And if I refuse?” inquired De Wardes.

“In that case the result will be—”

“That which you think you will prevent,” said De Wardes, laughing; “the
result will be that your conciliatory address will end in a violation of
the king’s prohibition.”

“Not so,” said the captain, “you are quite mistaken.”

“What will be the result, then?”

“The result will be that I shall go to the king, with whom I am on
tolerably good terms, to whom I have been happy enough to render certain
services, dating from a period when you were not born, and who, at my
request, has just sent me an order in blank for M. Baisemeaux de
Montlezun, governor of the Bastile; and I shall say to the king: ‘Sire, a
man has in a most cowardly way insulted M. de Bragelonne by insulting his
mother; I have written this man’s name upon the lettre de cachet
which your majesty has been kind enough to give me, so that M. de Wardes
is in the Bastile for three years.” And D’Artagnan, drawing the order
signed by the king from his pocket, held it towards De Wardes.

Remarking that the young man was not quite convinced, and received the
warning as an idle threat, he shrugged his shoulders and walked leisurely
towards the table, upon which lay a writing-case and a pen, the length of
which would have terrified the topographical Porthos. De Wardes then saw
that nothing could well be more seriously intended than the threat in
question, for the Bastile, even at that period, was already held in dread.
He advanced a step towards Raoul, and, in an almost unintelligible voice,
said,—“I offer my apologies in the terms which M. d’Artagnan just
now dictated, and which I am forced to make to you.”

“One moment, monsieur,” said the musketeer, with the greatest
tranquillity, “you mistake the terms of the apology. I did not say, ‘and
which I am forced to make’; I said, ‘and which my conscience induces me to
make.’ This latter expression, believe me, is better than the former; and
it will be far preferable, since it will be the most truthful expression
of your own sentiments.”

“I subscribe to it,” said De Wardes; “but submit, gentlemen, that a thrust
of the sword through the body, as was the custom formerly, was far better
than tyranny like this.”

“No, monsieur,” replied Buckingham; “for the sword-thrust, when received,
was no indication that a particular person was right or wrong; it only
showed that he was more or less skillful in the use of the weapon.”

“Monsieur!” exclaimed De Wardes.

“There, now,” interrupted D’Artagnan, “you are going to say something very
rude, and I am rendering a service by stopping you in time.”

“Is that all, monsieur?” inquired De Wardes.

“Absolutely everything,” replied D’Artagnan; “and these gentlemen, as well
as myself, are quite satisfied with you.”

“Believe me, monsieur, that your reconciliations are not successful.”

“In what way?”

“Because, as we are now about to separate, I would wager that M. de
Bragelonne and myself are greater enemies than ever.”

“You are deceived, monsieur, as far as I am concerned,” returned Raoul;
“for I do not retain the slightest animosity in my heart against you.”

This last blow overwhelmed De Wardes. He cast his eyes around him like a
man bewildered. D’Artagnan saluted most courteously the gentlemen who had
been present at the explanation; and every one, on leaving the room, shook
hands with him; but not one hand was held out towards De Wardes. “Oh!”
exclaimed the young man, “can I not find some one on whom to wreak my
vengeance?”

“You can, monsieur, for I am here,” whispered a voice full of menace in
his ear.

De Wardes turned round, and saw the Duke of Buckingham, who, having
probably remained behind with that intention, had just approached him.
“You, monsieur?” exclaimed De Wardes.

“Yes, I! I am no subject of the king of France; I am not going to remain
on the territory, since I am about setting off for England. I have
accumulated in my heart such a mass of despair and rage, that I, too, like
yourself, need to revenge myself upon some one. I approve M. d’Artagnan’s
principles profoundly, but I am not bound to apply them to you. I am an
Englishman, and, in my turn, I propose to you what you proposed to others
to no purpose. Since you, therefore, are so terribly incensed, take me as
a remedy. In thirty-four hours’ time I shall be at Calais. Come with me;
the journey will appear shorter if together, than if alone. We will fight,
when we get there, upon the sands which are covered by the rising tide,
and which form part of the French territory during six hours of the day,
but belong to the territory of Heaven during the other six.”

“I accept willingly,” said De Wardes.

“I assure you,” said the duke, “that if you kill me, you will be rendering
me an infinite service.”

“I will do my utmost to make myself agreeable to you, duke,” said De
Wardes.

“It is agreed, then, that I carry you off with me?”

“I shall be at your commands. I needed some real danger and some mortal
risk to run, to tranquilize me.”

“In that case, I think you have met with what you are looking for.
Farewell, M. de Wardes; to-morrow morning, my valet will tell you the
exact hour of our departure; we can travel together like two excellent
friends. I generally travel as fast as I can. Adieu.”

Buckingham saluted De Wardes, and returned towards the king’s apartments;
De Wardes, irritated beyond measure, left the Palais Royal, and hurried
through the streets homeward to the house where he lodged.

Chapter XXI. Baisemeaux de Montlezun.

After the austere lesson administered to De Wardes, Athos and D’Artagnan
together descended the staircase which led to the courtyard of the Palais
Royal. “You perceive,” said Athos to D’Artagnan, “that Raoul cannot,
sooner or later, avoid a duel with De Wardes, for De Wardes is as brave as
he is vicious and wicked.”

“I know such fellows well,” replied D’Artagnan; “I had an affair with the
father. I assure you that, although at that time I had good muscles and a
sort of brute courage—I assure you that the father did me some
mischief. But you should have seen how I fought it out with him. Ah,
Athos, such encounters never take place in these times! I had a hand which
could never remain at rest, a hand like quicksilver,—you knew its
quality, for you have seen me at work. My sword was no longer than a piece
of steel; it was a serpent that assumed every form and every length,
seeking where it might thrust its head; in other words, where it might fix
its bite. I advanced half a dozen paces, then three, and then, body to
body, I pressed my antagonist closely, then I darted back again ten paces.
No human power could resist that ferocious ardor. Well, De Wardes the
father, with the bravery of his race, with his dogged courage, occupied a
good deal of my time; and my fingers, at the end of the engagement, were,
I well remember, tired enough.”

“It is, then, as I said,” resumed Athos, “the son will always be looking
out for Raoul, and will end by meeting him; and Raoul can easily be found
when he is sought for.”

“Agreed; but Raoul calculates well; he bears no grudge against De Wardes,—he
has said so; he will wait until he is provoked, and in that case his
position is a good one. The king will not be able to get out of temper
about the matter; besides we shall know how to pacify his majesty. But why
so full of these fears and anxieties? You don’t easily get alarmed.”

“I will tell you what makes me anxious; Raoul is to see the king
to-morrow, when his majesty will inform him of his wishes respecting a
certain marriage. Raoul, loving as he does, will get out of temper, and
once in an angry mood, if he were to meet De Wardes, the shell would
explode.”

“We will prevent the explosion.”

“Not I,” said Athos, “for I must return to Blois. All this gilded elegance
of the court, all these intrigues, sicken me. I am no longer a young man
who can make terms with the meanness of the day. I have read in the Great
Book many things too beautiful and too comprehensive to longer take any
interest in the trifling phrases which these men whisper among themselves
when they wish to deceive others. In one word, I am weary of Paris
wherever and whenever you are not with me; and as I cannot have you with
me always, I wish to return to Blois.”

“How wrong you are, Athos; how you gainsay your origin and the destiny of
your noble nature. Men of your stamp are created to continue, to the very
last moment, in full possession of their great faculties. Look at my
sword, a Spanish blade, the one I wore at La Rochelle; it served me for
thirty years without fail; one day in the winter it fell upon the marble
floor on the Louvre and was broken. I had a hunting-knife made of it which
will last a hundred years yet. You, Athos, with your loyalty, your
frankness, your cool courage, and your sound information, are the very man
kings need to warn and direct them. Remain here; Monsieur Fouquet will not
last as long as my Spanish blade.”

“Is it possible,” said Athos, smiling, “that my friend, D’Artagnan, who,
after having raised me to the skies, making me an object of worship, casts
me down from the top of Olympus, and hurls me to the ground? I have more
exalted ambition, D’Artagnan. To be a minister—to be a slave,—never!
Am I not still greater? I am nothing. I remember having heard you
occasionally call me ‘the great Athos’; I defy you, therefore, if I were
minister, to continue to bestow that title upon me. No, no; I do not yield
myself in this manner.”

“We will not speak of it any more, then; renounce everything, even the
brotherly feeling which unites us.”

“It is almost cruel what you say.”

D’Artagnan pressed Athos’s hand warmly. “No, no; renounce everything
without fear. Raoul can get on without you. I am at Paris.”

“In that case I shall return to Blois. We will take leave of each other
to-night; to-morrow at daybreak I shall be on my horse again.”

“You cannot return to your hotel alone; why did you not bring Grimaud with
you?”

“Grimaud takes his rest now; he goes to bed early, for my poor old servant
gets easily fatigued. He came from Blois with me, and I compelled him to
remain within doors; for if, in retracing the forty leagues which separate
us from Blois, he needed to draw breath even, he would die without a
murmur. But I don’t want to lose Grimaud.”

“You shall have one of my musketeers to carry a torch for you. Hola!
some one there,” called out D’Artagnan, leaning over the gilded
balustrade. The heads of seven or eight musketeers appeared. “I wish some
gentleman, who is so disposed, to escort the Comte de la Fere,” cried
D’Artagnan.

“Thank you for your readiness, gentlemen,” said Athos; “I regret to have
occasion to trouble you in this manner.”

“I would willingly escort the Comte de la Fere,” said some one, “if I had
not to speak to Monsieur d’Artagnan.”

“Who is that?” said D’Artagnan, looking into the darkness.

“I, Monsieur d’Artagnan.”

“Heaven forgive me, if that is not Monsieur Baisemeaux’s voice.”

“It is, monsieur.”

“What are you doing in the courtyard, my dear Baisemeaux?”

“I am waiting your orders, my dear Monsieur d’Artagnan.”

“Wretch that I am,” thought D’Artagnan; “true, you have been told, I
suppose, that some one was to be arrested, and have come yourself, instead
of sending an officer?”

“I came because I had occasion to speak to you.”

“You did not send to me?”

“I waited until you were disengaged,” said Monsieur Baisemeaux, timidly.

“I leave you, D’Artagnan,” said Athos.

“Not before I have present Monsieur Baisemeaux de Montlezun, the governor
of the Bastile.”

Baisemeaux and Athos saluted each other.

“Surely you must know each other,” said D’Artagnan.

“I have an indistinct recollection of Monsieur Baisemeaux,” said Athos.

“You remember, my dear, Baisemeaux, the king’s guardsman with whom we used
formerly to have such delightful meetings in the cardinal’s time?”

“In the first place, as for the orders—there are none. The king does
not intend to arrest the person in question.

“So much the worse,” said Baisemeaux with a sigh.

“What do you mean by so much the worse?” exclaimed D’Artagnan, laughing.

“No doubt of it,” returned the governor, “my prisoners are my income.”

“I beg your pardon, I did not see it in that light.”

“And so there are no orders,” repeated Baisemeaux with a sigh. “What an
admirable situation yours is, captain,” he continued, after a pause;
“captain-lieutenant of the musketeers.”

“Oh, it is good enough; but I don’t see why you should envy me; you,
governor of the Bastile, the first castle in France.”

“I am well aware of that,” said Baisemeaux, in a sorrowful tone of voice.

“You say that like a man confessing his sins. I would willingly exchange
my profits for yours.”

“Don’t speak of profits to me, if you wish to save me the bitterest
anguish of mind.”

“Why do you look first on one side and then on the other, as if you were
afraid of being arrested yourself, you whose business it is to arrest
others?”

“I was looking to see whether any one could see or listen to us; it would
be safer to confer more in private, if you would grant me such a favor.”

“Baisemeaux, you seem to forget we are acquaintances of five and thirty
years’ standing. Don’t assume such sanctified airs; make yourself quite
comfortable; I don’t eat governors of the Bastile raw.”

“Heaven be praised!”

“Come into the courtyard with me; it’s a beautiful moonlit night; we will
walk up and down, arm in arm, under the trees, while you tell me your
pitiful tale.” He drew the doleful governor into the courtyard, took him
by the arm as he had said, and, in his rough, good-humored way, cried:
“Out with it, rattle away, Baisemeaux; what have you got to say?”

“It’s a long story.”

“You prefer your own lamentations, then; my opinion is, it will be longer
than ever. I’ll wager you are making fifty thousand francs out of your
pigeons in the Bastile.”

“Would to heaven that were the case, M. d’Artagnan.”

“You surprise me, Baisemeaux; just look at you, acting the anchorite. I
should like to show you your face in a glass, and you would see how plump
and florid-looking you are, as fat and round as a cheese, with eyes like
lighted coals; and if it were not for that ugly wrinkle you try to
cultivate on your forehead, you would hardly look fifty years old, and you
are sixty, if I am not mistaken.”

“All quite true.”

“Of course I knew it was true, as true as the fifty thousand francs profit
you make;” at which remark Baisemeaux stamped on the ground.

“Well, well,” said D’Artagnan, “I will add up your accounts for you: you
were captain of M. Mazarin’s guards; and twelve thousand francs a year
would in twelve years amount to one hundred and forty thousand francs.”

“Twelve thousand francs! Are you mad?” cried Baisemeaux; “the old miser
gave me no more than six thousand, and the expenses of the post amounted
to six thousand five hundred francs. M. Colbert, who deducted the other
six thousand francs, condescended to allow me to take fifty thousand
francs as a gratification; so that, if it were not for my little estate at
Montlezun, which brings me in twelve thousand francs a year, I could not
have met my engagements.”

“Well, then, how about the fifty thousand francs from the Bastile? There,
I trust, you are boarded and lodged, and get your six thousand francs
salary besides.”

“Admitted!”

“Whether the year be good or bad, there are fifty prisoners, who, on the
average, bring you in a thousand francs a year each.”

“I don’t deny it.”

“Well, there is at once an income of fifty thousand francs; you have held
the post three years, and must have received in that time one hundred and
fifty thousand francs.”

“You forget one circumstance, dear M. d’Artagnan.”

“What is that?”

“That while you received your appointment as captain from the king
himself, I received mine as governor from Messieurs Tremblay and
Louviere.”

“Quite right, and Tremblay was not a man to let you have the post for
nothing.”

“Nor Louviere either: the result was, that I gave seventy-five thousand
francs to Tremblay as his share.”

“Very agreeable that! and to Louviere?”

“The very same.”

“Money down?”

“No: that would have been impossible. The king did not wish, or rather M.
Mazarin did not wish, to have the appearance of removing those two
gentlemen, who had sprung from the barricades; he permitted them,
therefore, to make certain extravagant conditions for their retirement.”

“What were those conditions?”

“Tremble... three years’ income for the good-will.”

“The deuce! so that the one hundred and fifty thousand francs have passed
into their hands.”

“Precisely so.”

“And beyond that?”

“A sum of one hundred and fifty thousand francs, or fifteen thousand
pistoles, whichever you please, in three payments.”

“Exorbitant.”

“Yes, but that is not all.”

“What besides?”

“In default of the fulfillment by me of any one of those conditions, those
gentlemen enter upon their functions again. The king has been induced to
sign that.”

“It is monstrous, incredible!”

“Such is the fact, however.”

“I do indeed pity you, Baisemeaux. But why, in the name of fortune, did M.
Mazarin grant you this pretended favor? It would have been far better to
have refused you altogether.”

“Certainly, but he was strongly persuaded to do so by my protector.”

“Who is he?”

“One of your own friends, indeed; M. d’Herblay.”

“M. d’Herblay! Aramis!”

“Just so; he has been very kind towards me.”

“Kind! to make you enter into such a bargain!”

“Listen! I wished to leave the cardinal’s service. M. d’Herblay spoke on
my behalf to Louviere and Tremblay—they objected; I wished to have
the appointment very much, for I knew what it could be made to produce; in
my distress I confided in M. d’Herblay, and he offered to become my surety
for the different payments.”

“You astound me! Aramis became your surety?”

“Like a man of honor; he procured the signature; Tremblay and Louviere
resigned their appointments; I have paid every year twenty-five thousand
francs to these two gentlemen; on the thirty-first of May, every year, M.
d’Herblay himself comes to the Bastile, and brings me five thousand
pistoles to distribute between my crocodiles.”

“You owe Aramis one hundred and fifty thousand francs, then?”

“That is the very thing which is the cause of my despair, for I only owe
him one hundred thousand.”

“I don’t quite understand you.”

“He came and settled with the vampires only two years. To-day, however, is
the thirty-first of May, and he has not been yet, and to-morrow, at
midday, the payment falls due; if, therefore, I don’t pay to-morrow, those
gentlemen can, by the terms of the contract, break off the bargain; I
shall be stripped of everything; I shall have worked for three years, and
given two hundred and fifty thousand francs for nothing, absolutely for
nothing at all, dear M. d’Artagnan.”

“This is very strange,” murmured D’Artagnan.

“You can now imagine that I may well have wrinkles on my forehead, can you
not?”

“Yes, indeed!”

“And you can imagine, too, that notwithstanding I may be as round as a
cheese, with a complexion like an apple, and my eyes like coals on fire, I
may almost be afraid that I shall not have a cheese or an apple left me to
eat, and that my eyes will be left me only to weep with.”

“It is really a very grievous affair.”

“I have come to you, M. d’Artagnan, for you are the only man who can get
me out of my trouble.”

“In what way?”

“You are acquainted with the Abbe d’Herblay, and you know that he is a
somewhat mysterious gentleman.”

“Yes.”

“Well, you can, perhaps, give me the address of his presbytery, for I have
been to Noisy-le-Sec, and he is no longer there.”

“I should think not, indeed. He is Bishop of Vannes.”

“What! Vannes in Bretagne?”

“Yes.”

The little man began to tear his hair, saying, “How can I get to Vannes
from here by midday to-morrow? I am a lost man.”

“Your despair quite distresses me.”

“Vannes, Vannes!” cried Baisemeaux.

“But listen; a bishop is not always a resident. M. d’Herblay may not
possibly be so far away as you fear.”

“Pray tell me his address.”

“I really don’t know it.”

“In that case I am lost. I will go and throw myself at the king’s feet.”

“But, Baisemeaux, I can hardly believe what you tell me; besides, since
the Bastile is capable of producing fifty thousand francs a year, why have
you not tried to screw one hundred thousand out of it?”

“Because I am an honest man, M. d’Artagnan, and because my prisoners are
fed like ambassadors.”

“Well, you’re in a fair way to get out of your difficulties; give yourself
a good attack of indigestion with your excellent living, and put yourself
out of the way between this and midday to-morrow.”

“How can you be hard-hearted enough to laugh?”

“Nay, you really afflict me. Come, Baisemeaux, if you can pledge me your
word of honor, do so, that you will not open your lips to any one about
what I am going to say to you.”

“Never, never!”

“You wish to put your hands on Aramis?”

“At any cost!”

“Well, go and see where M. Fouquet is.”

“Why, what connection can there be—”

“How stupid you are! Don’t you know that Vannes is in the diocese of
Belle-Isle, or Belle-Isle in the diocese of Vannes? Belle-Isle belongs to
M. Fouquet, and M. Fouquet nominated M. d’Herblay to that bishopric!”

“I see, I see; you restore me to life again.”

“So much the better. Go and tell M. Fouquet very simply that you wish to
speak to M. d’Herblay.”

“Of course, of course,” exclaimed Baisemeaux, delightedly.

“But,” said D’Artagnan, checking him by a severe look, “your word of
honor?”

“I give you my sacred word of honor,” replied the little man, about to set
off running.

“Where are you going?”

“To M. Fouquet’s house.”

“It is useless doing that; M. Fouquet is playing at cards with the king.
All you can do is to pay M. Fouquet a visit early to-morrow morning.”

“I will do so. Thank you.”

“Good luck attend you,” said D’Artagnan.

“Thank you.”

“This is a strange affair,” murmured D’Artagnan, as he slowly ascended the
staircase after he had left Baisemeaux. “What possible interest can Aramis
have in obliging Baisemeaux in this manner? Well, I suppose we shall learn
some day or another.”

Chapter XXII. The King’s Card-Table.

Fouquet was present, as D’Artagnan had said, at the king’s card-table. It
seemed as if Buckingham’s departure had shed a balm on the lacerated
hearts of the previous evening. Monsieur, radiant with delight, made a
thousand affectionate signs to his mother. The Count de Guiche could not
separate himself from Buckingham, and while playing, conversed with him
upon the circumstance of his projected voyage. Buckingham, thoughtful, and
kind in his manner, like a man who has adopted a resolution, listened to
the count, and from time to time cast a look full of regret and hopeless
affection at Madame. The princess, in the midst of her elation of spirits,
divided her attention between the king, who was playing with her,
Monsieur, who quietly joked her about her enormous winnings, and De
Guiche, who exhibited an extravagant delight. Of Buckingham she took but
little notice; for her, this fugitive, this exile, was now simply a
remembrance, no longer a man. Light hearts are thus constituted; while
they themselves continue untouched, they roughly break off with every one
who may possibly interfere with their little calculations of self comfort.
Madame had received Buckingham’s smiles and attentions and sighs while he
was present; but what was the good of sighing, smiling, and kneeling at a
distance? Can one tell in what direction the winds in the Channel, which
toss mighty vessels to and fro, carry such sighs as these? The duke could
not fail to mark this change, and his heart was cruelly hurt. Of a
sensitive character, proud and susceptible of deep attachment, he cursed
the day on which such a passion had entered his heart. The looks he cast,
from time to time at Madame, became colder by degrees at the chilling
complexion of his thoughts. He could hardly yet despair, but he was strong
enough to impose silence upon the tumultuous outcries of his heart. In
exact proportion, however, as Madame suspected this change of feeling, she
redoubled her activity to regain the ray of light she was about to lose;
her timid and indecisive mind was displayed in brilliant flashes of wit
and humor. At any cost she felt that she must be remarked above everything
and every one, even above the king himself. And she was so, for the
queens, notwithstanding their dignity, and the king, despite the respect
which etiquette required, were all eclipsed by her. The queens, stately
and ceremonious, were softened and could not restrain their laughter.
Madame Henriette, the queen-mother, was dazzled by the brilliancy which
cast distinction upon her family, thanks to the wit of the grand-daughter
of Henry IV. The king, jealous, as a young man and as a monarch, of the
superiority of those who surrounded him, could not resist admitting
himself vanquished by a petulance so thoroughly French in its nature,
whose energy more than ever increased by English humor. Like a child, he
was captivated by her radiant beauty, which her wit made still more
dazzling. Madame’s eyes flashed like lightning. Wit and humor escaped from
her scarlet lips like persuasion from the lips of Nestor of old. The whole
court, subdued by her enchanting grace, noticed for the first time that
laughter could be indulged in before the greatest monarch in the world,
like people who merited their appellation of the wittiest and most
polished people in Europe.

Madame, from that evening, achieved and enjoyed a success capable of
bewildering all not born to those altitudes termed thrones; which, in
spite of their elevation, are sheltered from such giddiness. From that
very moment Louis XIV. acknowledged Madame as a person to be recognized.
Buckingham regarded her as a coquette deserving the cruelest tortures, and
De Guiche looked upon her as a divinity; the courtiers as a star whose
light might some day become the focus of all favor and power. And yet
Louis XIV., a few years previously, had not even condescended to offer his
hand to that “ugly girl” for a ballet; and Buckingham had worshipped this
coquette “on both knees.” De Guiche had once looked upon this divinity as
a mere woman; and the courtiers had not dared to extol this star in her
upward progress, fearful to disgust the monarch whom such a dull star had
formerly displeased.

Let us see what was taking place during this memorable evening at the
king’s card-table. The young queen, although Spanish by birth, and the
niece of Anne of Austria, loved the king, and could not conceal her
affection. Anne of Austria, a keen observer, like all women, and
imperious, like every queen, was sensible of Madame’s power, and
acquiesced in it immediately, a circumstance which induced the young queen
to raise the siege and retire to her apartments. The king hardly paid any
attention to her departure, notwithstanding the pretended symptoms of
indisposition by which it was accompanied. Encouraged by the rules of
etiquette, which he had begun to introduce at the court as an element of
every relation of life, Louis XIV. did not disturb himself; he offered his
hand to Madame without looking at Monsieur his brother, and led the young
princess to the door of her apartments. It was remarked, that at the
threshold of the door, his majesty, freed from every restraint, or not
equal to the situation, sighed very deeply. The ladies present—nothing
escapes a woman’s glance—Mademoiselle Montalais, for instance—did
not fail to say to each other, “the king sighed,” and “Madame sighed too.”
This had been indeed the case. Madame had sighed very noiselessly, but
with an accompaniment very far more dangerous for the king’s repose.
Madame had sighed, first closing her beautiful black eyes, next opening
them, and then, laden, as they were, with an indescribable mournfulness of
expression, she had raised them towards the king, whose face at that
moment visibly heightened in color. The consequence of these blushes, of
those interchanged sighs, and of this royal agitation, was, that Montalais
had committed an indiscretion which had certainly affected her companion,
for Mademoiselle de la Valliere, less clear sighted, perhaps, turned pale
when the king blushed; and her attendance being required upon Madame, she
tremblingly followed the princess without thinking of taking the gloves,
which court etiquette required her to do. True it is that the young
country girl might allege as her excuse the agitation into which the king
seemed to be thrown, for Mademoiselle de la Valliere, busily engaged in
closing the door, had involuntarily fixed her eyes upon the king, who, as
he retired backwards, had his face towards it. The king returned to the
room where the card-tables were set out. He wished to speak to the
different persons there, but it was easy to see that his mind was absent.
He jumbled different accounts together, which was taken advantage of by
some of the noblemen who had retained those habits since the time of
Monsieur Mazarin—who had a poor memory, but was a good calculator.
In this way, Monsieur Manicamp, with a thoughtless and absent air—for
M. Manicamp was the honestest man in the world, appropriated twenty
thousand francs, which were littering the table, and which did not seem to
belong to any person in particular. In the same way, Monsieur de Wardes,
whose head was doubtless a little bewildered by the occurrences of the
evening, somehow forgot to leave behind him the sixty double louis which
he had won for the Duke of Buckingham, and which the duke, incapable, like
his father, of soiling his hands with coin of any sort, had left lying on
the table before him. The king only recovered his attention in some degree
at the moment that Monsieur Colbert, who had been narrowly observant for
some minutes, approached, and, doubtless, with great respect, yet with
much perseverance, whispered a counsel of some sort into the still
tingling ears of the king. The king, at the suggestion, listened with
renewed attention and immediately looking around him, said, “Is Monsieur
Fouquet no longer here?”

“Yes, sire, I am here,” replied the superintendent, till then engaged with
Buckingham, and approached the king, who advanced a step towards him with
a smiling yet negligent air. “Forgive me,” said Louis, “if I interrupt
your conversation; but I claim your attention wherever I may require your
services.”

“I am always at the king’s service,” replied Fouquet.

“And your cash-box, too,” said the king, laughing with a false smile.

“My cash-box more than anything else,” said Fouquet, coldly.

“The fact is, I wish to give a fete at Fontainebleau—to keep
open house for fifteen days, and I shall require—” and he stopped,
glancing at Colbert. Fouquet waited without showing discomposure; and the
king resumed, answering Colbert’s icy smile, “four million francs.”

“Four million,” repeated Fouquet, bowing profoundly. And his nails, buried
in his bosom, were thrust into his flesh, but the tranquil expression of
his face remained unaltered. “When will they be required, sire?”

“Take your time,—I mean—no, no; as soon as possible.”

“A certain time will be necessary, sire.”

“Time!” exclaimed Colbert, triumphantly.

“The time, monsieur,” said the superintendent, with the haughtiest
disdain, “simply to count the money; a million can only be drawn
and weighed in a day.”

“Four days, then,” said Colbert.

“My clerks,” replied Fouquet, addressing himself to the king, “will
perform wonders on his majesty’s service, and the sum shall be ready in
three days.”

It was for Colbert now to turn pale. Louis looked at him astonished.
Fouquet withdrew without any parade or weakness, smiling at his numerous
friends, in whose countenances alone he read the sincerity of their
friendship—an interest partaking of compassion. Fouquet, however,
should not be judged by his smile, for, in reality, he felt as if he had
been stricken by death. Drops of blood beneath his coat stained the fine
linen that clothed his chest. His dress concealed the blood, and his smile
the rage which devoured him. His domestics perceived, by the manner in
which he approached his carriage, that their master was not in the best of
humors: the result of their discernment was, that his orders were executed
with that exactitude of maneuver which is found on board a man-of-war,
commanded during a storm by an ill-tempered captain. The carriage,
therefore, did not simply roll along—it flew. Fouquet had hardly
time to recover himself during the drive; on his arrival he went at once
to Aramis, who had not yet retired for the night. As for Porthos, he had
supped very agreeably off a roast leg of mutton, two pheasants, and a
perfect heap of cray-fish; he then directed his body to be anointed with
perfumed oils, in the manner of the wrestlers of old; and when this
anointment was completed, he had himself wrapped in flannels and placed in
a warm bed. Aramis, as we have already said, had not retired. Seated at
his ease in a velvet dressing-gown, he wrote letter after letter in that
fine and hurried handwriting, a page of which contained a quarter of a
volume. The door was thrown hurriedly open, and the superintendent
appeared, pale, agitated, anxious. Aramis looked up: “Good-evening,” said
he; and his searching look detected his host’s sadness and disordered
state of mind. “Was your play as good as his majesty’s?” asked Aramis, by
way of beginning the conversation.

Fouquet threw himself upon a couch, and then pointed to the door to the
servant who had followed him; when the servant had left he said,
“Excellent.”

Aramis, who had followed every movement with his eyes, noticed that he
stretched himself upon the cushions with a sort of feverish impatience.
“You have lost as usual?” inquired Aramis, his pen still in his hand.

“Even more than usual,” replied Fouquet.

“You know how to support losses?”

“Sometimes.”

“What, Monsieur Fouquet a bad player!”

“There is play and play, Monsieur d’Herblay.”

“How much have you lost?” inquired Aramis, with a slight uneasiness.

Fouquet collected himself a moment, and then, without the slightest
emotion, said, “The evening has cost me four millions,” and a bitter laugh
drowned the last vibration of these words.

Aramis, who did not expect such an amount, dropped his pen. “Four
millions,” he said; “you have lost four millions,—impossible!”

“Monsieur Colbert held my cards for me,” replied the superintendent, with
a similar bitter laugh.

“Ah, now I understand; so, so, a new application for funds?”

“Yes, and from the king’s own lips. It was impossible to ruin a man with a
more charming smile. What do you think of it?”

“It is clear that your destruction is the object in view.”

“That is your opinion?”

“Still. Besides, there is nothing in it which should astonish you, for we
have foreseen it all along.”

“Yes; but I did not expect four millions.”

“No doubt the amount is serious, but, after all, four millions are not
quite the death of a man, especially when the man in question is Monsieur
Fouquet.”

“My dear D’Herblay, if you knew the contents of my coffers, you would be
less easy.”

“And you promised?”

“What could I do?”

“That’s true.”

“The very day I refuse, Colbert will procure the money; whence I know not,
but he will procure it: and I shall be lost.”

“There is no doubt of that. In how many days did you promise the four
millions?”

“In three days. The king seemed exceedingly pressed.”

“In three days?”

“When I think,” resumed Fouquet, “that just now as I passed along the
streets, the people cried out, ‘There is the rich Monsieur Fouquet,’ it is
enough to turn my brain.”

“Stay, monsieur, the matter is not worth so much trouble,” said Aramis,
calmly, sprinkling some sand over the letter he had just written.

“Suggest a remedy, then, for this evil without a remedy.”

“There is only one remedy for you,—pay.”

“But it is very uncertain whether I have the money. Everything must be
exhausted; Belle-Isle is paid for; the pension has been paid; and money,
since the investigation of the accounts of those who farm the revenue, is
scarce. Besides, admitting that I pay this time, how can I do so on
another occasion? When kings have tasted money, they are like tigers who
have tasted flesh, they devour everything. The day will arrive—must
arrive—when I shall have to say, ‘Impossible, sire,’ and on that
very day I am a lost man.”

Aramis raised his shoulders slightly, saying:

“A man in your position, my lord, is only lost when he wishes to be so.”

“A man, whatever his position may be, cannot hope to struggle against a
king.”

“Nonsense; when I was young I wrestled successfully with the Cardinal
Richelieu, who was king of France,—nay more—cardinal.”

“Where are my armies, my troops, my treasures? I have not even
Belle-Isle.”

“Bah! necessity is the mother of invention, and when you think all is
lost, something will be discovered which will retrieve everything.”

“Who will discover this wonderful something?”

“Yourself.”

“I! I resign my office of inventor.”

“Then I will.”

“Be it so. But set to work without delay.”

“Oh! we have time enough!”

“You kill me, D’Herblay, with your calmness,” said the superintendent,
passing his handkerchief over his face.

“Do you not remember that I one day told you not to make yourself uneasy,
if you possessed courage? Have you any?”

“I believe so.”

“Then don’t make yourself uneasy.”

“It is decided then, that, at the last moment, you will come to my
assistance.”

“It will only be the repayment of a debt I owe you.”

“It is the vocation of financiers to anticipate the wants of men such as
yourself, D’Herblay.”

“If obligingness is the vocation of financiers, charity is the virtue of
the clergy. Only, on this occasion, do you act, monsieur. You are not yet
sufficiently reduced, and at the last moment we will see what is to be
done.”

“We shall see, then, in a very short time.”

“Very well. However, permit me to tell you that, personally, I regret
exceedingly that you are at present so short of money, because I myself
was about to ask you for some.”

“For yourself?”

“For myself, or some of my people, for mine or for ours.”

“How much do you want?”

“Be easy on that score; a roundish sum, it is true, but not too
exorbitant.”

“Tell me the amount.”

“Fifty thousand francs.”

“Oh! a mere nothing. Of course one has always fifty thousand francs. Why
the deuce cannot that knave Colbert be as easily satisfied as you are—and
I should give myself far less trouble than I do. When do you need this
sum?”

“To-morrow morning; but you wish to know its destination?”

“Nay, nay, chevalier, I need no explanation.”

“To-morrow is the first of June.”

“Well?”

“One of our bonds becomes due.”

“I did not know we had any bonds.”

“Certainly, to-morrow we pay our last third instalment.”

“What third?”

“Of the one hundred and fifty thousand francs to Baisemeaux.”

“Baisemeaux? Who is he?”

“The governor of the Bastile.”

“Yes, I remember. On what grounds am I to pay one hundred and fifty
thousand francs for that man.”

“On account of the appointment which he, or rather we, purchased from
Louviere and Tremblay.”

“I have a very vague recollection of the matter.”

“That is likely enough, for you have so many affairs to attend to.
However, I do not believe you have any affair in the world of greater
importance than this one.”

“Tell me, then, why we purchased this appointment.”

“Why, in order to render him a service in the first place, and afterwards
ourselves.”

“Ourselves? You are joking.”

“Monseigneur, the time may come when the governor of the Bastile may prove
a very excellent acquaintance.”

“I have not the good fortune to understand you, D’Herblay.”

“Monseigneur, we had our own poets, our own engineer, our own architect,
our own musicians, our own printer, and our own painters; we needed our
own governor of the Bastile.”

“Do you think so?”

“Let us not deceive ourselves, monseigneur; we are very much opposed to
paying the Bastile a visit,” added the prelate, displaying, beneath his
pale lips, teeth which were still the same beautiful teeth so much admired
thirty years previously by Marie Michon.

“And you think it is not too much to pay one hundred and fifty thousand
francs for that? I thought you generally put out money at better interest
than that.”

“The day will come when you will admit your mistake.”

“My dear D’Herblay, the very day on which a man enters the Bastile, he is
no longer protected by his past.”

“Yes, he is, if the bonds are perfectly regular; besides, that good fellow
Baisemeaux has not a courtier’s heart. I am certain, my lord, that he will
not remain ungrateful for that money, without taking into account, I
repeat, that I retain the acknowledgements.”

“It is a strange affair! usury in a matter of benevolence.”

“Do not mix yourself up with it, monseigneur; if there be usury, it is I
who practice it, and both of us reap the advantage from it—that is
all.”

“Some intrigue, D’Herblay?”

“I do not deny it.”

“And Baisemeaux an accomplice in it?”

“Why not?—there are worse accomplices than he. May I depend, then,
upon the five thousand pistoles to-morrow?”

“Do you want them this evening?”

“It would be better, for I wish to start early; poor Baisemeaux will not
be able to imagine what has be become of me, and must be upon thorns.”

“You shall have the amount in an hour. Ah, D’Herblay, the interest of your
one hundred and fifty thousand francs will never pay my four millions for
me.”

“Why not, monseigneur?”

“Good-night, I have business to transact with my clerks before I retire.”

“A good night’s rest, monseigneur.”

“D’Herblay, you wish things that are impossible.”

“Shall I have my fifty thousand francs this evening?”

“Yes.”

“Go to sleep, then, in perfect safety—it is I who tell you to do
so.”

Notwithstanding this assurance, and the tone in which it was given,
Fouquet left the room shaking his head, and heaving a sigh.

Chapter XXIII. M. Baisemeaux de Montlezun’s Accounts.

The clock of St. Paul was striking seven as Aramis, on horseback, dressed
as a simple citizen, that is to say, in colored suit, with no distinctive
mark about him, except a kind of hunting-knife by his side, passed before
the Rue du Petit-Musc, and stopped opposite the Rue des Tournelles, at the
gate of the Bastile. Two sentinels were on duty at the gate; they made no
difficulty about admitting Aramis, who entered without dismounting, and
they pointed out the way he was to go by a long passage with buildings on
both sides. This passage led to the drawbridge, or, in other words, to the
real entrance. The drawbridge was down, and the duty of the day was about
being entered upon. The sentinel at the outer guardhouse stopped Aramis’s
further progress, asking him, in a rough tone of voice, what had brought
him there. Aramis explained, with his usual politeness, that a wish to
speak to M. Baisemeaux de Montlezun had occasioned his visit. The first
sentinel then summoned a second sentinel, stationed within an inner lodge,
who showed his face at the grating, and inspected the new arrival most
attentively. Aramis reiterated the expression of his wish to see the
governor; whereupon the sentinel called to an officer of lower grade, who
was walking about in a tolerably spacious courtyard and who, in turn, on
being informed of his object, ran to seek one of the officers of the
governor’s staff. The latter, after having listened to Aramis’s request,
begged him to wait a moment, then went away a short distance, but returned
to ask his name. “I cannot tell it you, monsieur,” said Aramis; “I need
only mention that I have matters of such importance to communicate to the
governor, that I can only rely beforehand upon one thing, that M. de
Baisemeaux will be delighted to see me; nay, more than that, when you have
told him that it is the person whom he expected on the first of June, I am
convinced he will hasten here himself.” The officer could not possibly
believe that a man of the governor’s importance should put himself out for
a person of so little importance as the citizen-looking visitor on
horseback. “It happens most fortunately, monsieur,” he said, “that the
governor is just going out, and you can perceive his carriage with the
horses already harnessed, in the courtyard yonder; there will be no
occasion for him to come to meet you, as he will see you as he passes by.”
Aramis bowed to signify his assent; he did not wish to inspire others with
too exalted an opinion of himself, and therefore waited patiently and in
silence, leaning upon the saddle-bow of his horse. Ten minutes had hardly
elapsed when the governor’s carriage was observed to move. The governor
appeared at the door, and got into the carriage, which immediately
prepared to start. The same ceremony was observed for the governor himself
as with a suspected stranger; the sentinel at the lodge advanced as the
carriage was about to pass under the arch, and the governor opened the
carriage-door, himself setting the example of obedience to orders; so
that, in this way, the sentinel could convince himself that no one quitted
the Bastile improperly. The carriage rolled along under the archway, but
at the moment the iron-gate was opened, the officer approached the
carriage, which had again been stopped, and said something to the
governor, who immediately put his head out of the door-way, and perceived
Aramis on horseback at the end of the drawbridge. He immediately uttered
almost a shout of delight, and got out, or rather darted out of his
carriage, running towards Aramis, whose hands he seized, making a thousand
apologies. He almost embraced him. “What a difficult matter to enter the
Bastile!” said Aramis. “Is it the same for those who are sent here against
their wills, as for those who come of their own accord?”

“A thousand pardons, my lord. How delighted I am to see your Grace!”

“Hush! What are you thinking of, my dear M. Baisemeaux? What do you
suppose would be thought of a bishop in my present costume?”

“Pray, excuse me, I had forgotten. Take this gentleman’s horse to the
stables,” cried Baisemeaux.

“No, no,” said Aramis; “I have five thousand pistoles in the saddle-bags.”

The governor’s countenance became so radiant, that if the prisoners had
seen him they would have imagined some prince of the royal blood had
arrived. “Yes, you are right, the horse shall be taken to the government
house. Will you get into the carriage, my dear M. d’Herblay? and it shall
take us back to my house.”

“Get into a carriage to cross a courtyard! do you believe I am so great an
invalid? No, no, we will go on foot.”

Baisemeaux then offered his arm as a support, but the prelate did not
accept it. They arrived in this manner at the government house, Baisemeaux
rubbing his hands and glancing at the horse from time to time, while
Aramis was looking at the bleak bare walls. A tolerably handsome vestibule
and a staircase of white stone led to the governor’s apartments, who
crossed the ante-chamber, the dining-room, where breakfast was being
prepared, opened a small side door, and closeted himself with his guest in
a large cabinet, the windows of which opened obliquely upon the courtyard
and the stables. Baisemeaux installed the prelate with that all-inclusive
politeness of which a good man, or a grateful man, alone possesses the
secret. An arm-chair, a footstool, a small table beside him, on which to
rest his hand, everything was prepared by the governor himself. With his
own hands, too, he placed upon the table, with much solicitude, the bag
containing the gold, which one of the soldiers had brought up with the
most respectful devotion; and the soldier having left the room, Baisemeaux
himself closed the door after him, drew aside one of the window-curtains,
and looked steadfastly at Aramis to see if the prelate required anything
further.

“Well, my lord,” he said, still standing up, “of all men of their word,
you still continue to be the most punctual.”

“In matters of business, dear M. de Baisemeaux, exactitude is not a virtue
only, it is a duty as well.”

“Yes, in matters of business, certainly; but what you have with me is not
of that character; it is a service you are rendering me.”

“Come, confess, dear M. de Baisemeaux, that, notwithstanding this
exactitude, you have not been without a little uneasiness.”

“About your health, I certainly have,” stammered out Baisemeaux.

“I wished to come here yesterday, but I was not able, as I was too
fatigued,” continued Aramis. Baisemeaux anxiously slipped another cushion
behind his guest’s back. “But,” continued Aramis, “I promised myself to
come and pay you a visit to-day, early in the morning.”

“You are really very kind, my lord.”

“And it was a good thing for me I was punctual, I think.”

“What do you mean?”

“Yes, you were going out.” At which latter remark Baisemeaux colored and
said, “It is true I was going out.”

“Then I prevent you,” said Aramis; whereupon the embarrassment of
Baisemeaux became visibly greater. “I am putting you to inconvenience,” he
continued, fixing a keen glace upon the poor governor; “if I had known
that, I should not have come.”

“How can your lordship imagine that you could ever inconvenience me?”

“Confess you were going in search of money.”

“No,” stammered out Baisemeaux, “no! I assure you I was going to—”

“Does the governor still intend to go to M. Fouquet?” suddenly called out
the major from below. Baisemeaux ran to the window like a madman. “No,
no,” he exclaimed in a state of desperation, “who the deuce is speaking of
M. Fouquet? are you drunk below there? why am I interrupted when I am
engaged on business?”

“You were going to M. Fouquet’s,” said Aramis, biting his lips, “to M.
Fouquet, the abbe, or the superintendent?”

Baisemeaux almost made up his mind to tell an untruth, but he could not
summon courage to do so. “To the superintendent,” he said.

“It is true, then, that you were in want of money, since you were going to
a person who gives it away!”

“I assure you, my lord—”

“You were afraid?”

“My dear lord, it was the uncertainty and ignorance in which I was as to
where you were to be found.”

“You would have found the money you require at M. Fouquet’s, for he is a
man whose hand is always open.”

“I swear that I should never have ventured to ask M. Fouquet for money. I
only wished to ask him for your address.”

“Yes,” said Baisemeaux, greatly disturbed by the glance which the prelate
fixed upon him,—“at M. Fouquet’s certainly.”

“There is no harm in that, dear M. Baisemeaux, only I would ask, why ask
my address of M. Fouquet?”

“That I might write to you.”

“I understand,” said Aramis smiling, “but that is not what I meant; I do
not ask you what you required my address for: I only ask why you should go
to M. Fouquet for it?”

“Oh!” said Baisemeaux, “as Belle-Isle is the property of M. Fouquet, and
as Belle-Isle is in the diocese of Vannes, and as you are bishop of Vannes—”

“But, my dear Baisemeaux, since you knew I was bishop of Vannes, you had
no occasion to ask M. Fouquet for my address.”

“Well, monsieur,” said Baisemeaux, completely at bay, “if I have acted
indiscreetly, I beg your pardon most sincerely.”

“Nonsense,” observed Aramis calmly: “how can you possibly have acted
indiscreetly?” And while he composed his face, and continued to smile
cheerfully on the governor, he was considering how Baisemeaux, who was not
aware of his address, knew, however, that Vannes was his residence. “I
shall clear all this up,” he said to himself; and then speaking aloud,
added,—“Well, my dear governor shall we now arrange our little
accounts?”

“I am at your orders, my lord; but tell me beforehand, my lord, whether
you will do me the honor to breakfast with me as usual?”

“Very willingly, indeed.”

“That’s well,” said Baisemeaux, as he struck the bell before him three
times.

“What does that mean?” inquired Aramis.

“That I have some one to breakfast with me, and that preparations are to
be made accordingly.”

“And you rang thrice. Really, my dear governor, I begin to think you are
acting ceremoniously with me.”

“No, indeed. Besides, the least I can do is to receive you in the best way
I can.”

“But why so?”

“Because not even a prince could have done what you have done for me.”

“Nonsense! nonsense!”

“Nay, I assure you—”

“Let us speak of other matters,” said Aramis. “Or rather, tell me how your
affairs here are getting on.”

“Not over well.”

“The deuce!”

“M. de Mazarin was not hard enough.”

“Yes, I see; you require a government full of suspicion—like that of
the old cardinal, for instance.”

“Yes; matters went on better under him. The brother of his ‘gray eminence’
made his fortune here.”

“Believe me, my dear governor,” said Aramis, drawing closer to Baisemeaux,
“a young king is well worth an old cardinal. Youth has its suspicions, its
fits of anger, its prejudices, as old age has its hatreds, its
precautions, and its fears. Have you paid your three years’ profits to
Louvidre and Tremblay?”

“Most certainly I have.”

“So that you have nothing more to give them than the fifty thousand francs
I have brought with me?”

“Nothing.”

“Have you not saved anything, then?”

“My lord, in giving the fifty thousand francs of my own to these
gentlemen, I assure you that I gave them everything I gain. I told M.
d’Artagnan so yesterday evening.”

“Ah!” said Aramis, whose eyes sparkled for a moment, but became
immediately afterwards as unmoved as before; “so you have been to see my
old friend D’Artagnan; how was he?”

“Wonderfully well.”

“And what did you say to him, M. de Baisemeaux?”

“I told him,” continued the governor, not perceiving his own
thoughtlessness; “I told him that I fed my prisoners too well.”

“How many have you?” inquired Aramis, in an indifferent tone of voice.

“Sixty.”

“Well, that is a tolerably round number.”

“In former times, my lord, there were, during certain years, as many as
two hundred.”

“Still a minimum of sixty is not to be grumbled at.”

“Perhaps not; for, to anybody but myself, each prisoner would bring in two
hundred and fifty pistoles; for instance, for a prince of the blood I have
fifty francs a day.”

“Only you have no prince of the blood; at least, I suppose so,” said
Aramis, with a slight tremor in his voice.

“No, thank heaven!—I mean, no, unfortunately.”

“What do you mean by unfortunately?”

“Because my appointment would be improved by it. So fifty francs per day
for a prince of the blood, thirty-six for a marechal of France—”

“But you have as many marechals of France, I suppose, as you have princes
of the blood?”

“Alas! no more. It is true lieutenant-generals and brigadiers pay
twenty-six francs, and I have two of them. After that, come councilors of
parliament, who bring me fifteen francs, and I have six of them.”

“I did not know,” said Aramis, “that councilors were so productive.”

“Yes; but from fifteen francs I sink at once to ten francs; namely, for an
ordinary judge, and for an ecclesiastic.”

“And you have seven, you say; an excellent affair.”

“Nay, a bad one, and for this reason. How can I possibly treat these poor
fellows, who are of some good, at all events, otherwise than as a
councilor of parliament?”

“Yes, you are right; I do not see five francs difference between them.”

“You understand; if I have a fine fish, I pay four or five francs for it;
if I get a fine fowl, it cost me a franc and a half. I fatten a good deal
of poultry, but I have to buy grain, and you cannot imagine the army of
rats that infest this place.”

“Why not get half a dozen cats to deal with them?”

“Cats, indeed; yes, they eat them, but I was obliged to give up the idea
because of the way in which they treated my grain. I have been obliged to
have some terrier dogs sent me from England to kill the rats. These dogs,
unfortunately, have tremendous appetites; they eat as much as a prisoner
of the fifth order, without taking into account the rabbits and fowls they
kill.”

Was Aramis really listening or not? No one could have told; his downcast
eyes showed the attentive man, but the restless hand betrayed the man
absorbed in thought—Aramis was meditating.

“I was saying,” continued Baisemeaux, “that a good-sized fowl costs me a
franc and a half, and that a fine fish costs me four or five francs. Three
meals are served at the Bastile, and, as the prisoners, having nothing to
do, are always eating, a ten-franc man costs me seven francs and a half.”

“But did you not say that you treated those at ten francs like those at
fifteen?”

“Yes, certainly.”

“Very well! Then you gain seven francs and a half upon those who pay you
fifteen francs.”

“I must compensate myself somehow,” said Baisemeaux, who saw how he
had been snapped up.

“You are quite right, my dear governor; but have you no prisoners below
ten francs?”

“Oh, yes! we have citizens and barristers at five francs.”

“And do they eat, too?”

“Not a doubt about it; only you understand that they do not get fish or
poultry, nor rich wines at every meal; but at all events thrice a week
they have a good dish at their dinner.”

“Really, you are quite a philanthropist, my dear governor, and you will
ruin yourself.”

“No; understand me; when the fifteen-franc has not eaten his fowl, or the
ten-franc has left his dish unfinished, I send it to the five-franc
prisoner; it is a feast for the poor devil, and one must be charitable,
you know.”

“And what do you make out of your five-franc prisoners?”

“A franc and a half.”

“Baisemeaux, you’re an honest fellow; in honest truth I say so.”

“Thank you, my lord. But I feel most for the small tradesmen and bailiffs’
clerks, who are rated at three francs. They do not often see Rhine carp or
Channel sturgeon.”

“But do not the five-franc gentlemen sometimes leave some scraps?”

“Oh! my lord, do not believe I am so stingy as that; I delight the heart
of some poor little tradesman or clerk by sending him a wing of a red
partridge, a slice of venison, or a slice of a truffled pasty, dishes
which he never tasted except in his dreams; these are the leavings of the
twenty-four-franc prisoners; and as he eats and drinks, at dessert he
cries ‘Long live the King,’ and blesses the Bastile; with a couple bottles
of champagne, which cost me five sous, I make him tipsy every Sunday. That
class of people call down blessings upon me, and are sorry to leave the
prison. Do you know that I have remarked, and it does me infinite honor,
that certain prisoners, who have been set at liberty, have, almost
immediately afterwards, got imprisoned again? Why should this be the case,
unless it be to enjoy the pleasures of my kitchen? It is really the fact.”

Aramis smiled with an expression of incredulity.

“You smile,” said Baisemeaux.

“I do,” returned Aramis.

“I tell you that we have names which have been inscribed on our books
thrice in the space of two years.”

“I must see it before I believe it,” said Aramis.

“Well, I can show it to you, although it is prohibited to communicate the
registers to strangers; and if you really wish to see it with your own
eyes—”

“I should be delighted, I confess.”

“Very well,” said Baisemeaux, and he took out of a cupboard a large
register. Aramis followed him most anxiously with his eyes, and Baisemeaux
returned, placed the register upon the table, and turned over the leaves
for a minute, and stayed at the letter M.

“Look here,” said he, “Martinier, January, 1659; Martinier, June, 1660;
Martinier, March, 1661. Mazarinades, etc.; you understand it was only a
pretext; people were not sent to the Bastile for jokes against M. Mazarin;
the fellow denounced himself in order to get imprisoned here.”

“And what was his object?”

“None other than to return to my kitchen at three francs a day.”

“Three francs—poor devil!”

“The poet, my lord, belongs to the lowest scale, the same style of board
as the small tradesman and bailiff’s clerk; but I repeat, it is to those
people that I give these little surprises.”

Aramis mechanically turned over the leaves of the register, continuing to
read the names, but without appearing to take any interest in the names he
read.

“In 1661, you perceive,” said Baisemeaux, “eighty entries; and in 1659,
eighty also.”

“Ah!” said Aramis. “Seldon; I seem to know that name. Was it not you who
spoke to me about a certain young man?”

“Yes, a poor devil of a student, who made—What do you call that
where two Latin verses rhyme together?”

“A distich.”

“Yes; that is it.”

“Poor fellow; for a distich.”

“Do you know that he made this distich against the Jesuits?”

“That makes no difference; the punishment seems very severe. Do not pity
him; last year you seemed to interest yourself in him.”

“Yes, I did so.”

“Well, as your interest is all-powerful here, my lord, I have treated him
since that time as a prisoner at fifteen francs.”

“The same as this one, then,” said Aramis, who had continued turning over
the leaves, and who had stopped at one of the names which followed
Martinier.

“Yes, the same as that one.”

“Is that Marchiali an Italian?” said Aramis, pointing with his finger to
the name which had attracted his attention.

“Hush!” said Baisemeaux.

“Why hush?” said Aramis, involuntarily clenching his white hand.

“I thought I had already spoken to you about that Marchiali.”

“No, it is the first time I ever heard his name pronounced.”

“That may be, but perhaps I have spoken to you about him without naming
him.”

“Is he an old offender?” asked Aramis, attempting to smile.

“On the contrary, he is quite young.”

“Is his crime, then, very heinous?”

“Unpardonable.”

“Has he assassinated any one?”

“Bah!”

“An incendiary, then?”

“Bah!”

“Has he slandered any one?”

“No, no! It is he who—” and Baisemeaux approached Aramis’s ear,
making a sort of ear-trumpet of his hands, and whispered: “It is he who
presumes to resemble the—”

“Yes, yes,” said Aramis; “I now remember you already spoke about it last
year to me; but the crime appeared to me so slight.”

“Slight, do you say?”

“Or rather, so involuntary.”

“My lord, it is not involuntarily that such a resemblance is detected.”

“Well, the fact is, I had forgotten it. But, my dear host,” said Aramis,
closing the register, “if I am not mistaken, we are summoned.”

Baisemeaux took the register, hastily restored it to its place in the
closet, which he locked, and put the key in his pocket. “Will it be
agreeable to your lordship to breakfast now?” said he; “for you are right
in supposing that breakfast was announced.”

“Assuredly, my dear governor,” and they passed into the dining-room.

Chapter XXIV. The Breakfast at Monsieur de Baisemeaux’s.

Aramis was generally temperate; but on this occasion, while taking every
care of his constitution, he did ample justice to Baisemeaux’s breakfast,
which, in all respects, was most excellent. The latter on his side, was
animated with the wildest gayety; the sight of the five thousand pistoles,
which he glanced at from time to time, seemed to open his heart. Every now
and then he looked at Aramis with an expression of the deepest gratitude;
while the latter, leaning back in his chair, took a few sips of wine from
his glass, with the air of a connoisseur. “Let me never hear any ill words
against the fare of the Bastile,” said he, half closing his eyes; “happy
are the prisoners who can get only half a bottle of such Burgundy every
day.”

“All those at fifteen francs drink it,” said Baisemeaux. “It is very old
Volnay.”

“Does that poor student, Seldon, drink such good wine?”

“Oh, no!”

“I thought I heard you say he was boarded at fifteen francs.”

“He! no, indeed; a man who makes districts—distichs I mean—at
fifteen francs! No, no! it is his neighbor who is at fifteen francs.”

“Which neighbor?”

“The other, second Bertaudiere.”

“Excuse me, my dear governor; but you speak a language which requires
quite an apprenticeship to understand.”

“Very true,” said the governor. “Allow me to explain: second Bertaudiere
is the person who occupies the second floor of the tower of the
Bertaudiere.”

“So that Bertaudiere is the name of one of the towers of the Bastile? The
fact is, I think I recollect hearing that each tower has a name of its
own. Whereabouts is the one you are speaking of?”

“Look,” said Baisemeaux, going to the window. “It is that tower to the
left—the second one.”

“Is the prisoner at fifteen francs there?”

“Yes.”

“Since when?”

“Seven or eight years, nearly.”

“What do you mean by nearly? Do you not know the dates more precisely?”

“It was not in my time, M. d’Herblay.”

“But I should have thought that Louviere or Tremblay would have told you.”

“The secrets of the Bastile are never handed over with the keys of the
governorship.”

“Indeed! Then the cause of his imprisonment is a mystery—a state
secret.”

“Oh, no! I do not suppose it is a state secret, but a secret—like
everything that happens at the Bastile.”

“But,” said Aramis, “why do you speak more freely of Seldon than of second
Bertaudiere?”

“Because, in my opinion, the crime of the man who writes a distich is not
so great as that of the man who resembles—”

“Yes, yes; I understand you. Still, do not the turnkeys talk with your
prisoners?”

“Of course.”

“The prisoners, I suppose, tell them they are not guilty?”

“They are always telling them that; it is a matter of course; the
same song over and over again.”

“But does not the resemblance you were speaking about just now strike the
turnkeys?”

“My dear M. d’Herblay, it is only for men attached to the court, as you
are, to take trouble about such matters.”

“Nay, nay! You are a musketeer still, to the very tips of your fingers,
while I have become a bishop. A taste for me; a glass for yourself.”

“As you please.” And Aramis and the governor nodded to each other, as they
drank their wine. “But,” said Aramis, looking with fixed attention at the
ruby-colored wine he had raised to the level of his eyes, as if he wished
to enjoy it with all his senses at the same moment, “but what you might
call a resemblance, another would not, perhaps, take any notice of.”

“Most certainly he would, though, if it were any one who knew the person
he resembles.”

“I really think, dear M. Baisemeaux, that it can be nothing more than a
resemblance of your own creation.”

“Upon my honor, it is not so.”

“Stay,” continued Aramis. “I have seen many persons very like the one we
are speaking of; but, out of respect, no one ever said anything about it.”

“Very likely; because there is resemblance and resemblance. This is a
striking one, and, if you were to see him, you would admit it to be so.”

“If I were to see him, indeed,” said Aramis, in an indifferent tone; “but
in all probability I never shall.”

“Why not?”

“Because if I were even to put my foot inside one of those horrible
dungeons, I should fancy I was buried there forever.”

“No, no; the cells are very good places to live in.”

“I really do not, and cannot believe it, and that is a fact.”

“Pray do not speak ill of second Bertaudiere. It is really a good room,
very nicely furnished and carpeted. The young fellow has by no means been
unhappy there; the best lodging the Bastile affords has been his. There is
a chance for you.”

“Nay, nay,” said Aramis, coldly; “you will never make me believe there are
any good rooms in the Bastile; and, as for your carpets, they exist only
in your imagination. I should find nothing but spiders, rats, and perhaps
toads, too.”

“Toads?” cried Baisemeaux.

“Yes, in the dungeons.”

“Ah! I don’t say there are not toads in the dungeons,” replied Baisemeaux.
“But—will you be convinced by your own eyes?” he continued, with a
sudden impulse.

“No, certainly not.”

“Not even to satisfy yourself of the resemblance which you deny, as you do
the carpets?”

“Some spectral-looking person, a mere shadow; an unhappy, dying man.”

“Nothing of the kind—as brisk and vigorous a young fellow as ever
lived.”

“Melancholy and ill-tempered, then?”

“Not at all; very gay and lively.”

“Nonsense; you are joking.”

“Will you follow me?” said Baisemeaux.

“What for?”

“To go the round of the Bastile.”

“Why?”

“You will then see for yourself—see with your own eyes.”

“But the regulations?”

“Never mind them. To-day my major has leave of absence; the lieutenant is
visiting the post on the bastions; we are sole masters of the situation.”

“No, no, my dear governor; why, the very idea of the sound of the bolts
makes me shudder. You will only have to forget me in second or fourth
Bertaudiere, and then—”

“You are refusing an opportunity that may never present itself again. Do
you know that, to obtain the favor I propose to you gratis, some of the
princes of the blood have offered me as much as fifty thousand francs.”

“Really! he must be worth seeing, then?”

“Forbidden fruit, my lord; forbidden fruit. You who belong to the church
ought to know that.”

“Well, if had any curiosity, it would be to see the poor author of the
distich.”

“Very well, we will see him, too; but if I were at all curious, it would
be about the beautiful carpeted room and its lodger.”

“Furniture is very commonplace; and a face with no expression in it offers
little or no interest.”

“But a boarder at fifteen francs is always interesting.”

“By the by, I forgot to ask you about that. Why fifteen francs for him,
and only three francs for poor Seldon?”

“The distinction made in that instance was a truly noble act, and one
which displayed the king’s goodness of heart to great advantage.”

“Why, it seems that his crime is a lasting one; and, consequently, his
punishment ought to be so, too.”

“Lasting?”

“No doubt of it, unless he is fortunate enough to catch the small-pox, and
even that is difficult, for we never get any impure air here.”

“Nothing can be more ingenious than your train of reasoning, my dear M.
Baisemeaux. Do you, however, mean to say that this unfortunate man must
suffer without interruption or termination?”

“I did not say he was to suffer, my lord; a fifteen-franc boarder does not
suffer.”

“He suffers imprisonment, at all events.”

“No doubt; there is no help for that, but this suffering is sweetened for
him. You must admit that this young fellow was not born to eat all the
good things he does eat; for instance, such things as we have on the table
now; this pasty that has not been touched, these crawfish from the River
Marne, of which we have hardly taken any, and which are almost as large as
lobsters; all these things will at once be taken to second Bertaudiere,
with a bottle of that Volnay which you think so excellent. After you have
seen it you will believe it, I hope.”

“Yes, my dear governor, certainly; but all this time you are thinking only
of your very happy fifteen-franc prisoner, and you forget poor Seldon, my
protege.”

“Well, out of consideration for you, it shall be a gala day for him; he
shall have some biscuits and preserves with this small bottle of port.”

“You are a good-hearted fellow; I have said so already, and I repeat it,
my dear Baisemeaux.”

“Well, let us set off, then,” said the governor, a little bewildered,
partly from the wine he had drunk, and partly from Aramis’s praises.

“Do not forget that I only go to oblige you,” said the prelate.

“Very well; but you will thank me when you get there.”

“Let us go, then.”

“Wait until I have summoned the jailer,” said Baisemeaux, as he struck the
bell twice; at which summons a man appeared. “I am going to visit the
towers,” said the governor. “No guards, no drums, no noise at all.”

“If I were not to leave my cloak here,” said Aramis, pretending to be
alarmed, “I should really think I was going to prison on my own account.”

The jailer preceded the governor, Aramis walking on his right hand; some
of the soldiers who happened to be in the courtyard drew themselves up in
a line, as stiff as posts, as the governor passed along. Baisemeaux led
the way down several steps which conducted to a sort of esplanade; thence
they arrived at the drawbridge, where the sentinels on duty received the
governor with the proper honors. The governor turned toward Aramis, and,
speaking in such a tone that the sentinels could not lose a word, he
observed,—“I hope you have a good memory, monsieur?”

“Why?” inquired Aramis.

“On account of your plans and your measurements, for you know that no one
is allowed, not architects even, to enter where the prisoners are, with
paper, pens or pencil.”

“Good,” said Aramis to himself, “it seems I am an architect, then. It
sounds like one of D’Artagnan’s jokes, who perceived in me the engineer of
Belle-Isle.” Then he added aloud: “Be easy on that score, monsieur; in our
profession, a mere glance and a good memory are quite sufficient.”

Baisemeaux did not change countenance, and the soldiers took Aramis for
what he seemed to be. “Very well; we will first visit la Bertaudiere,”
said Baisemeaux, still intending the sentinels to hear him. Then, turning
to the jailer, he added: “You will take the opportunity of carrying to No.
2 the few dainties I pointed out.”

“So I am,” said the governor; and upon that, they began to ascend. The
number of bolts, gratings, and locks for this single courtyard would have
sufficed for the safety of an entire city. Aramis was neither an
imaginative nor a sensitive man; he had been somewhat of a poet in his
youth, but his heart was hard and indifferent, as the heart of every man
of fifty-five years of age is, who has been frequently and passionately
attached to women in his lifetime, or rather who has been passionately
loved by them. But when he placed his foot upon the worn stone steps,
along which so many unhappy wretches had passed, when he felt himself
impregnated, as it were, with the atmosphere of those gloomy dungeons,
moistened with tears, there could be but little doubt he was overcome by
his feelings, for his head was bowed and his eyes became dim, as he
followed Baisemeaux without a syllable.

Chapter XXV. The Second Floor of la Bertaudiere.

On the second flight of stairs, whether from fatigue or emotion, the
breathing of the visitor began to fail him, and he leaned against the
wall. “Will you begin with this one?” said Baisemeaux; “for since we are
going to both, it matters very little whether we ascend from the second to
the third story, or descend from the third to the second.”

“No, no,” exclaimed Aramis, eagerly, “higher, if you please; the one above
is the more urgent.” They continued their ascent. “Ask the jailer for the
keys,” whispered Aramis. Baisemeaux did so, took the keys, and, himself,
opened the door of the third room. The jailer was the first to enter; he
placed upon the table the provisions, which the kind-hearted governor
called dainties, and then left the room. The prisoner had not stirred;
Baisemeaux then entered, while Aramis remained at the threshold, from
which place he saw a youth about eighteen years of age, who, raising his
head at the unusual noise, jumped off the bed, as he perceived the
governor, and clasping his hands together, began to cry out, “My mother,
my mother,” in tones which betrayed such deep distress that Aramis,
despite his command over himself, felt a shudder pass through his frame.
“My dear boy,” said Baisemeaux, endeavoring to smile, “I have brought you
a diversion and an extra,—the one for the mind, the other for the
body; this gentleman has come to take your measure, and here are some
preserves for your dessert.”

“Oh, monsieur!” exclaimed the young man, “keep me in solitude for a year,
let me have nothing but bread and water for a year, but tell me that at
the end of a year I shall leave this place, tell me that at the end of a
year I shall see my mother again.”

“But I have heard you say that your mother was very poor, and that you
were very badly lodged when you were living with her, while here—upon
my word!”

“If she were poor, monsieur, the greater reason to restore her only means
of support to her. Badly lodged with her! Oh, monsieur, every one is
always well lodged when he is free.”

“At all events, since you yourself admit you have done nothing but write
that unhappy distich—”

“But without any intention, I swear. Let me be punished—cut off the
hand which wrote it, I will work with the other—but restore my
mother to me.”

“My boy,” said Baisemeaux, “you know very well that it does not depend
upon me; all I can do for you is to increase your rations, give you a
glass of port wine now and then, slip in a biscuit for you between a
couple of plates.”

“Great heaven!” exclaimed the young man, falling backward and rolling on
the ground.

Aramis, unable to bear this scene any longer, withdrew as far as the
landing. “Unhappy, wretched man,” he murmured.

“Yes, monsieur, he is indeed very wretched,” said the jailer; “but it is
his parents’ fault.”

“In what way?”

“No doubt. Why did they let him learn Latin? Too much knowledge, you see;
it is that which does harm. Now I, for instance, can’t read or write, and
therefore I am not in prison.” Aramis looked at the man, who seemed to
think that being a jailer in the Bastile was not being in prison. As for
Baisemeaux, noticing the little effect produced by his advice and his port
wine, he left the dungeon quite upset. “You have forgotten to close the
door,” said the jailer.

“So I have,” said Baisemeaux; “there are the keys, do you do it.”

“I will solicit the pardon of that poor boy,” said Aramis.

“And if you do not succeed,” said Baisemeaux, “at least beg that he may be
transferred to the ten-franc list, by which both he and I shall be
gainers.”

“If the other prisoner calls out for his mother in a similar manner,” said
Aramis, “I prefer not to enter at all, but will take my measure from
outside.”

“No fear of that, monsieur architect, the one we are now going to see is
as gentle as a lamb; before he could call after his mother he must open
his lips, and he never says a word.”

“Let us go in, then,” said Aramis, gloomily.

“Are you the architect of the prisons, monsieur?” said the jailer.

“I am.”

“It is odd, then, that you are not more accustomed to all this.”

Aramis perceived that, to avoid giving rise to any suspicions, he must
summon all his strength of mind to his assistance. Baisemeaux, who carried
the keys, opened the door. “Stay outside,” he said to the jailer, “and
wait for us at the bottom of the steps.” The jailer obeyed and withdrew.

Baisemeaux entered first, and opened the second door himself. By the light
which filtered through the iron-barred window, could be seen a handsome
young man, short in stature, with closely cut hair, and a beard beginning
to grow; he was sitting on a stool, his elbow resting on an armchair, and
with all the upper part of his body reclining against it. His dress,
thrown upon the bed, was of rich black velvet, and he inhaled the fresh
air which blew in upon his breast through a shirt of the very finest
cambric. As the governor entered, the young man turned his head with a
look full of indifference; and on recognizing Baisemeaux, he arose and
saluted him courteously. But when his eyes fell upon Aramis, who remained
in the background, the latter trembled, turned pale, and his hat, which he
held in his hand, fell upon the ground, as if all his muscles had become
relaxed at once. Baisemeaux, habituated to the presence of his prisoner,
did not seem to share any of the sensations which Aramis experienced, but,
with all the zeal of a good servant, he busied himself in arranging on the
table the pasty and crawfish he had brought with him. Occupied in this
manner, he did not remark how disturbed his guest had become. When he had
finished, however, he turned to the young prisoner and said: “You are
looking very well,—are you so?”

“Quite well, I thank you, monsieur,” replied the young man.

The effect of the voice was such as almost to overpower Aramis, and
notwithstanding his control over himself, he advanced a few steps towards
him, with his eyes wide open and his lips trembling. The movement he made
was so marked that Baisemeaux, notwithstanding his preoccupation, observed
it. “This gentleman is an architect who has come to examine your chimney,”
said Baisemeaux; “does it smoke?”

“Never, monsieur.”

“You were saying just now,” said the governor, rubbing his hands together,
“that it was not possible for a man to be happy in prison; here, however,
is one who is so. You have nothing to complain of, I hope?”

“Nothing.”

“Do you ever feel weary?” said Aramis.

“Never.”

“Ha, ha,” said Baisemeaux, in a low tone of voice; “was I right?”

“Well, my dear governor, it is impossible not to yield to evidence. Is it
allowed to put any question to him?”

“As many as you like.”

“Very well; be good enough to ask him if he knows why he is here.”

“This gentleman requests me to ask you,” said Baisemeaux, “if you are
aware of the cause of your imprisonment?”

“No, monsieur,” said the young man, unaffectedly, “I am not.”

“That is hardly possible,” said Aramis, carried away by his feelings in
spite of himself; “if you were really ignorant of the cause of your
detention, you would be furious.”

“I was so during the early days of my imprisonment.”

“Why are you not so now?”

“Because I have reflected.”

“That is strange,” said Aramis.

“Is it not odd?” said Baisemeaux.

“May one venture to ask you, monsieur, on what you have reflected?”

“I felt that as I had committed no crime, Heaven could not punish me.”

“What is a prison, then,” inquired Aramis, “if it be not a punishment.”

“Alas! I cannot tell,” said the young man; “all that I can tell you now is
the very opposite of what I felt seven years ago.”

“To hear you converse, to witness your resignation, one might almost
believe that you liked your imprisonment?”

“I endure it.”

“In the certainty of recovering your freedom some day, I suppose?”

“I have no certainty; hope, I have, and that is all; and yet I acknowledge
that this hope becomes less every day.”

“Still, why should you not again be free, since you have already been so?”

“That is precisely the reason,” replied the young man, “which prevents me
from expecting liberty; why should I have been imprisoned at all if it had
been intended to release me afterwards?”

“How old are you?”

“I do not know.”

“What is your name?”

“I have forgotten the name by which I was called.”

“Who are your parents?”

“I never knew them.”

“But those who brought you up?”

“They did not call me their son.”

“Did you ever love any one before coming here?”

“I loved my nurse, and my flowers.”

“Was that all?”

“I also loved my valet.”

“Do you regret your nurse and your valet?”

“I wept very much when they died.”

“Did they die since you have been here, or before you came?”

“They died the evening before I was carried off.”

“Both at the same time?”

“Yes, both at the same time.”

“In what manner were you carried off?”

“A man came for me, directed me to get into a carriage, which was closed
and locked, and brought me here.”

“Would you be able to recognize that man again?”

“He was masked.”

“Is this not an extraordinary tale?” said Baisemeaux, in a low tone of
voice, to Aramis, who could hardly breathe.

“It is indeed extraordinary,” he murmured.

“But what is still more extraordinary is, that he has never told me so
much as he has just told you.”

“Perhaps the reason may be that you have never questioned him,” said
Aramis.

“It’s possible,” replied Baisemeaux; “I have no curiosity. Have you looked
at the room? it’s a fine one, is it not?”

“Very much so.”

“A carpet—”

“Beautiful.”

“I’ll wager he had nothing like it before he came here.”

“I think so, too.” And then again turning towards the young man, he said,
“Do you not remember to have been visited at some time or another by a
strange lady or gentleman?”

“Yes, indeed; thrice by a woman, who each time came to the door in a
carriage, and entered covered with a veil, which she raised when we were
together and alone.”

“Do you remember that woman?”

“Yes.”

“What did she say to you?”

The young man smiled mournfully, and then replied, “She inquired, as you
have just done, if I were happy, and if I were getting weary.”

“What did she do on arriving, and on leaving you?”

“She pressed me in her arms, held me in her embrace, and kissed me.”

“Do you remember her?”

“Perfectly.”

“Do you recall her features distinctly?”

“Yes.”

“You would recognize her, then, if accident brought her before you, or led
you into her person?”

“Most certainly.”

A flush of fleeting satisfaction passed across Aramis’s face. At this
moment Baisemeaux heard the jailer approaching. “Shall we leave?” he said,
hastily, to Aramis.

Aramis, who probably had learnt all that he cared to know, replied, “When
you like.”

The young man saw them prepare to leave, and saluted them politely.
Baisemeaux replied merely by a nod of the head, while Aramis, with a
respect, arising perhaps from the sight of such misfortune, saluted the
prisoner profoundly. They left the room, Baisemeaux closing the door
behind them.

“Well,” said Baisemeaux, as they descended the staircase, “what do you
think of it all?”

“I have discovered the secret, my dear governor,” he said.

“Bah! what is the secret, then?”

“A murder was committed in that house.”

“Nonsense.”

“But attend; the valet and nurse died the same day.”

“Well.”

“And by poison. What do you think?”

“That is very likely to be true.”

“What! that that young man is an assassin?”

“Who said that? What makes you think that poor young fellow could be an
assassin?”

“The very thing I was saying. A crime was committed in his house,” said
Aramis, “and that was quite sufficient; perhaps he saw the criminals, and
it was feared that he might say something.”

“The deuce! if I only thought that—”

“Well?”

“I would redouble the surveillance.”

“Oh, he does not seem to wish to escape.”

“You do not know what prisoners are.”

“Has he any books?”

“None; they are strictly prohibited, and under M. de Mazarin’s own hand.”

“Have you the writing still?”

“Yes, my lord; would you like to look at it as you return to take your
cloak?”

“I should, for I like to look at autographs.”

“Well, then, this one is of the most unquestionable authenticity; there is
only one erasure.”

“Ah, ah! an erasure; and in what respect?”

“With respect to a figure. At first there was written: ‘To be boarded at
fifty francs.’”

“As princes of the blood, in fact?”

“But the cardinal must have seen his mistake, you understand; for he
canceled the zero, and has added a one before the five. But, by the by—”

“What?”

“You do not speak of the resemblance.”

“I do not speak of it, dear M. de Baisemeaux, for a very simple reason—
because it does not exist.”

“The deuce it doesn’t.”

“Or, if it does exist, it is only in your own imagination; but, supposing
it were to exist elsewhere, I think it would be better for you not to
speak of about it.”

“Really.”

“The king, Louis XIV.—you understand—would be excessively
angry with you, if he were to learn that you contributed in any way to
spread the report that one of his subjects has the effrontery to resemble
him.”

“It is true, quite true,” said Baisemeaux, thoroughly alarmed; “but I have
not spoken of the circumstance to any one but yourself, and you
understand, monseigneur, that I perfectly rely on your discretion.”

“Oh, be easy.”

“Do you still wish to see the note?”

“Certainly.”

While engaged in this manner in conversation, they had returned to the
governor’s apartments; Baisemeaux took from the cupboard a private
register, like the one he had already shown Aramis, but fastened by a
lock, the key which opened it being one of a small bunch which Baisemeaux
always carried with him. Then placing the book upon the table, he opened
it at the letter “M,” and showed Aramis the following note in the column
of observations: “No books at any time; all linen and clothes of the
finest and best quality to be procured; no exercise; always the same
jailer; no communications with any one. Musical instruments; every liberty
and every indulgence which his welfare may require; to be boarded at
fifteen francs. M. de Baisemeaux can claim more if the fifteen francs be
not sufficient.”

“Ah,” said Baisemeaux, “now I think of it, I shall claim it.”

Aramis shut the book. “Yes,” he said, “it is indeed M. de Mazarin’s
handwriting; I recognize it well. Now, my dear governor,” he continued, as
if this last communication had exhausted his interest, “let us now turn
over to our own little affairs.”

“Well, what time for repayment do you wish me to take? Fix it yourself.”

“There need not be any particular period fixed; give me a simple
acknowledgement for one hundred and fifty thousand francs.”

“When to be made payable?”

“When I require it; but, you understand, I shall only wish it when you
yourself do.”

“Oh, I am quite easy on that score,” said Baisemeaux, smiling; “but I have
already given you two receipts.”

“Which I now destroy,” said Aramis; and after having shown the two
receipts to Baisemeaux, he destroyed them. Overcome by so great a mark of
confidence, Baisemeaux unhesitatingly wrote out an acknowledgement of a
debt of one hundred and fifty thousand francs, payable at the pleasure of
the prelate. Aramis, who had, by glancing over the governor’s shoulder,
followed the pen as he wrote, put the acknowledgement into his pocket
without seeming to have read it, which made Baisemeaux perfectly easy.
“Now,” said Aramis, “you will not be angry with me if I were to carry off
one of your prisoners?”

“What do you mean?”

“By obtaining his pardon, of course. Have I not already told you that I
took a great interest in poor Seldon?”

“Yes, quite true, you did so.”

“Well?”

“That is your affair; do as you think proper. I see you have an open hand,
and an arm that can reach a great way.”

“Adieu, adieu.” And Aramis left, carrying with him the governor’s best
wishes.

Chapter XXVI. The Two Friends.

At the very time M. de Baisemeaux was showing Aramis the prisoners in the
Bastile, a carriage drew up at Madame de Belliere’s door, and, at that
still early hour, a young woman alighted, her head muffled in a silk hood.
When the servants announced Madame Vanel to Madame de Belliere, the latter
was engaged, or rather was absorbed, in reading a letter, which she
hurriedly concealed. She had hardly finished her morning toilette, her
maid being still in the next room. At the name—at the footsteps of
Marguerite Vanel, Madame de Belliere ran to meet her. She fancied she
could detect in her friend’s eyes a brightness which was neither that of
health nor of pleasure. Marguerite embraced her, pressed her hands, and
hardly allowed her time to speak. “Dearest,” she said, “have you forgotten
me? Have you quite given yourself up to the pleasures of the court?”

“I have not even seen the marriage fetes.”

“What are you doing with yourself, then?”

“I am getting ready to leave for Belliere.”

“For Belliere?”

“Yes.”

“You are becoming rustic in your tastes, then; I delight to see you so
disposed. But you are pale.”

“No, I am perfectly well.”

“So much the better; I was becoming uneasy about you. You do not know what
I have been told.”

“People say so many things.”

“Yes, but this is very singular.”

“How well you know how to excite curiosity, Marguerite.”

“Well, I was afraid of vexing you.”

“Never; you have yourself always admired me for my evenness of temper.”

“Well, then, it is said that—no, I shall never be able to tell you.”

“Do not let us talk about it, then,” said Madame de Belliere, who detected
the ill-nature that was concealed by all these prefaces, yet felt the most
anxious curiosity on the subject.

“Well, then, my dear marquise, it is said, for some time past, you no
longer continue to regret Monsieur de Belliere as you used to.”

“It is an ill-natured report, Marguerite. I do regret, and shall always
regret, my husband; but it is now two years since he died. I am only
twenty-eight years old, and my grief at his loss ought not always to
control every action and thought of my life. You, Marguerite, who are the
model of a wife, would not believe me if I were to say so.”

“Why not? Your heart is so soft and yielding,” she said, spitefully.

“Yours is so, too, Marguerite, and yet I did not perceive that you allowed
yourself to be overcome by grief when your heart was wounded.” These words
were in direct allusion to Marguerite’s rupture with the superintendent,
and were also a veiled but direct reproach made against her friend’s
heart.

As if she only awaited this signal to discharge her shaft, Marguerite
exclaimed, “Well, Elise, it is said you are in love.” And she looked
fixedly at Madame de Belliere, who blushed against her will.

“Women can never escape slander,” replied the marquise, after a moment’s
pause.

“No one slanders you, Elise.”

“What!—people say that I am in love, and yet they do not slander
me!”

“In the first place, if it be true, it is no slander, but simply a
scandal-loving report. In the next place—for you did not allow me to
finish what I was saying—the public does not assert that you have
abandoned yourself to this passion. It represents you, on the contrary, as
a virtuous but loving woman, defending yourself with claws and teeth,
shutting yourself up in your own house as in a fortress; in other
respects, as impenetrable as that of Danae, notwithstanding Danae’s tower
was made of brass.”

“You are witty, Marguerite,” said Madame de Belliere, angrily.

“You always flatter me, Elise. In short, however, you are reported to be
incorruptible and unapproachable. You cannot decide whether the world is
calumniating you or not; but what is it you are musing about while I am
speaking to you?”

“I?”

“Yes; you are blushing and do not answer me.”

“I was trying,” said the marquise, raising her beautiful eyes brightened
with an indication of growing temper, “I was trying to discover to what
you could possibly have alluded, you who are so learned in mythological
subjects, in comparing me to Danae.”

“You were trying to guess that?” said Marguerite, laughing.

“Yes; do you not remember that at the convent, when we were solving our
problems in arithmetic—ah! what I have to tell you is learned also,
but it is my turn—do you not remember, that if one of the terms were
given, we were to find the other? Therefore do you guess now?”

“I cannot conjecture what you mean.”

“And yet nothing is more simple. You pretend that I am in love, do you
not?”

“So it is said.”

“Very well; it is not said, I suppose, that I am in love with an
abstraction. There must surely be a name mentioned in this report.”

“Certainly, a name is mentioned.”

“Very well; it is not surprising, then, that I should try to guess this
name, since you do not tell it.”

“My dear marquise, when I saw you blush, I did not think you would have to
spend much time in conjectures.”

“It was the word Danae which you used that surprised me. Danae means a
shower of gold, does it not?”

“That is to say that the Jupiter of Danae changed himself into a shower of
gold for her.”

“My lover, then, he whom you assign me—”

“I beg your pardon; I am your friend, and assign you no one.”

“That may be; but those who are ill disposed towards me.”

“Do you wish to hear the name?”

“I have been waiting this half hour for it.”

“Well, then, you shall hear it. Do not be shocked; he is a man high in
power.”

“Good,” said the marquise, as she clenched her hands like a patient at the
approach of the knife.

“He is a very wealthy man,” continued Marguerite; “the wealthiest, it may
be. In a word, it is—”

The marquise closed her eyes for a moment.

“It is the Duke of Buckingham,” said Marguerite, bursting into laughter.
This perfidy had been calculated with extreme ability; the name that was
pronounced, instead of the name which the marquise awaited, had precisely
the same effect upon her as the badly sharpened axes, that had hacked,
without destroying, Messieurs de Chalais and de Thou upon the scaffold.
She recovered herself, however, and said, “I was perfectly right in saying
you were a witty woman, for you are making the time pass away most
agreeably. This joke is a most amusing one, for I have never seen the Duke
of Buckingham.”

“Never?” said Marguerite, restraining her laughter.

“I have never even left my own house since the duke has been at Paris.”

“Oh!” resumed Madame Vanel, stretching out her foot towards a paper which
was lying on the carpet near the window; “it is not necessary for people
to see each other, since they can write.” The marquise trembled, for this
paper was the envelope of the letter she was reading as her friend had
entered, and was sealed with the superintendent’s arms. As she leaned back
on the sofa on which she was sitting, Madame de Belliere covered the paper
with the thick folds of her large silk dress, and so concealed it.

“Come, Marguerite, tell me, is it to tell me all these foolish reports
that you have come to see me so early in the day?”

“No; I came to see you, in the first place, and to remind you of those
habits of our earlier days, so delightful to remember, when we used to
wander about together at Vincennes, and, sitting beneath an oak, or in
some sylvan shade, used to talk of those we loved, and who loved us.”

“Do you propose that we should go out together now?”

“My carriage is here, and I have three hours at my disposal.”

“I am not dressed yet, Marguerite; but if you wish that we should talk
together, we can, without going to the woods of Vincennes, find in my own
garden here, beautiful trees, shady groves, a green sward covered with
daisies and violets, the perfume of which can be perceived from where we
are sitting.”

“I repeat again, Marguerite, my heart is yours just as much in this room,
or beneath the lime-trees in the garden here, as it would be under the
oaks in the woods yonder.”

“It is not the same thing for me. In approaching Vincennes, marquise, my
ardent aspirations approach nearer to that object towards which they have
for some days past been directed.” The marquise suddenly raised her head.
“Are you surprised, then, that I am still thinking of Saint-Mande?”

“Of Saint-Mande?” exclaimed Madame de Belliere; and the looks of both
women met each other like two resistless swords.

“You, so proud!” said the marquise, disdainfully.

“I, so proud!” replied Madame Vanel. “Such is my nature. I do not forgive
neglect—I cannot endure infidelity. When I leave any one who weeps
at my abandonment, I feel induced still to love him; but when others
forsake me and laugh at their infidelity, I love distractedly.”

Madame de Belliere could not restrain an involuntary movement.

“She is jealous,” said Marguerite to herself.

“Then,” continued the marquise, “you are quite enamored of the Duke of
Buckingham—I mean of M. Fouquet?” Elise felt the allusion, and her
blood seemed to congeal in her heart. “And you wished to go to Vincennes,—to
Saint-Mande, even?”

“I hardly know what I wished: you would have advised me perhaps.”

“In what respect?”

“You have often done so.”

“Most certainly I should not have done so in the present instance, for I
do not forgive as you do. I am less loving, perhaps; when my heart has
been once wounded, it remains so always.”

“But M. Fouquet has not wounded you,” said Marguerite Vanel, with the most
perfect simplicity.

“You perfectly understand what I mean. M. Fouquet has not wounded me; I do
not know of either obligation or injury received at his hands, but you
have reason to complain of him. You are my friend, and I am afraid I
should not advise you as you would like.”

“Ah! you are prejudging the case.”

“The sighs you spoke of just now are more than indications.”

“You overwhelm me,” said the young woman suddenly, as if collecting her
whole strength, like a wrestler preparing for a last struggle; “you take
only my evil dispositions and my weaknesses into calculation, and do not
speak of my pure and generous feelings. If, at this moment, I feel
instinctively attracted towards the superintendent, if I even make an
advance to him, which, I confess, is very probable, my motive for it is,
that M. Fouquet’s fate deeply affects me, and because he is, in my
opinion, one of the most unfortunate men living.”

“Ah!” said the marquise, placing her hand upon her heart, “something new,
then, has occurred?”

“Do you not know it?”

“I am utterly ignorant of everything about him,” said Madame de Belliere,
with the poignant anguish that suspends thought and speech, and even life
itself.

“In the first place, then, the king’s favor is entirely withdrawn from M.
Fouquet, and conferred on M. Colbert.”

“So it is stated.”

“It is very clear, since the discovery of the plot of Belle-Isle.”

“I was told that the discovery of the fortifications there had turned out
to M. Fouquet’s honor.”

Marguerite began to laugh in so cruel a manner that Madame de Belliere
could at that moment have delightedly plunged a dagger in her bosom.
“Dearest,” continued Marguerite, “there is no longer any question of M.
Fouquet’s honor; his safety is concerned. Before three days are passed the
ruin of the superintendent will be complete.”

“Stay,” said the marquise, in her turn smiling, “that is going a little
fast.”

“I said three days, because I wish to deceive myself with a hope; but
probably the catastrophe will be complete within twenty-four hours.”

“Why so?”

“For the simplest of all reasons,—that M. Fouquet has no more
money.”

“In matters of finance, my dear Marguerite, some are without money to-day,
who to-morrow can procure millions.”

“That might be M. Fouquet’s case when he had two wealthy and clever
friends who amassed money for him, and wrung it from every possible or
impossible source; but those friends are dead.”

“Money does not die, Marguerite; it may be concealed, but it can be looked
for, bought and found.”

“You see things on the bright side, and so much the better for you. It is
really very unfortunate that you are not the Egeria of M. Fouquet; you
might now show him the source whence he could obtain the millions which
the king asked him for yesterday.”

“M. Fouquet, I should think, must certainly have four millions,” she
replied, courageously.

“If he has those which the king requires to-day,” said Marguerite, “he
will not, perhaps, possess those which the king will demand in a month or
so.”

“The king will exact money from him again, then?”

“No doubt; and that is my reason for saying that the ruin of poor M.
Fouquet is inevitable. Pride will induce him to furnish the money, and
when he has no more, he will fall.”

“It is true,” said the marquise, trembling; “the plan is a bold one; but
tell me, does M. Colbert hate M. Fouquet so very much?”

“I think he does not like him. M. Colbert is powerful; he improves on
close acquaintance; he has gigantic ideas, a strong will, and discretion;
he will rise.”

“He will be superintendent?”

“It is probable. Such is the reason, my dear marquise, why I felt myself
impressed in favor of that poor man, who once loved, and even adored me;
and why, when I see him so unfortunate, I forgive his infidelity, which I
have reason to believe he also regrets; and why, moreover, I should not
have been disinclined to afford him some consolation, or some good advice;
he would have understood the step I had taken, and would have thought
kindly of me for it. It is gratifying to be loved, you know. Men value
love more highly when they are no longer blinded by its influence.”

The marquise, bewildered and overcome by these cruel attacks, which had
been calculated with the greatest nicety and precision, hardly knew what
to answer in return; she even seemed to have lost all power of thought.
Her perfidious friend’s voice had assumed the most affectionate tone; she
spoke as a woman, but concealed the instincts of a wolf.

“Well,” said Madame de Belliere, who had a vague hope that Marguerite
would cease to overwhelm a vanquished enemy, “why do you not go and see M.
Fouquet?”

“Decidedly, marquise, you have made me reflect. No, it would be unbecoming
for me to make the first advance. M. Fouquet no doubt loves me, but he is
too proud. I cannot expose myself to an affront.... besides, I have my
husband to consider. You tell me nothing? Very well, I shall consult M.
Colbert on the subject.” Marguerite rose smilingly, as though to take
leave, but the marquise had not the strength to imitate her. Marguerite
advanced a few paces, in order that she might continue to enjoy the
humiliating grief in which her rival was plunged, and then said, suddenly,—“You
do not accompany me to the door, then?” The marquise rose, pale and almost
lifeless, without thinking of the envelope, which had occupied her
attention so greatly at the commencement of the conversation, and which
was revealed at the first step she took. She then opened the door of her
oratory, and without even turning her head towards Marguerite Vanel,
entered it, closing the door after her. Marguerite said, or rather
muttered a few words, which Madame de Belliere did not even hear. As soon,
however, as the marquise had disappeared, her envious enemy, not being
able to resist the desire to satisfy herself that her suspicions were well
founded, advanced stealthily like a panther, and seized the envelope.
“Ah!” she said, gnashing her teeth, “it was indeed a letter from M.
Fouquet she was reading when I arrived,” and then darted out of the room.
During this interval, the marquise, having arrived behind the rampart, as
it were, of her door, felt that her strength was failing her; for a moment
she remained rigid, pale and motionless as a statue, and then, like a
statue shaken on its base by an earthquake, tottered and fell inanimate on
the carpet. The noise of the fall resounded at the same moment as the
rolling of Marguerite’s carriage leaving the hotel.

Chapter XXVII. Madame de Belliere’s Plate.

The blow had been the more painful on account of its being unexpected. It
was some time before the marquise recovered herself; but once recovered,
she began to reflect upon the events so heartlessly announced to her. She
therefore returned, at the risk even of losing her life in the way, to
that train of ideas which her relentless friend had forced her to pursue.
Treason, then—deep menaces, concealed under the semblance of public
interest—such were Colbert’s maneuvers. A detestable delight at an
approaching downfall, untiring efforts to attain this object, means of
seduction no less wicked than the crime itself—such were the weapons
Marguerite employed. The crooked atoms of Descartes triumphed; to the man
without compassion was united a woman without heart. The marquise
perceived, with sorrow rather than indignation, that the king was an
accomplice in the plot which betrayed the duplicity of Louis XIII. in his
advanced age, and the avarice of Mazarin at a period of life when he had
not had the opportunity of gorging himself with French gold. The spirit of
this courageous woman soon resumed its energy, no longer overwhelmed by
indulgence in compassionate lamentations. The marquise was not one to weep
when action was necessary, nor to waste time in bewailing a misfortune as
long as means still existed of relieving it. For some minutes she buried
her face in her cold fingers, and then, raising her head, rang for her
attendants with a steady hand, and with a gesture betraying a fixed
determination of purpose. Her resolution was taken.

“Is everything prepared for my departure?” she inquired of one of her
female attendants who entered.

“Yes, madame; but it was not expected that your ladyship would leave for
Belliere for the next few days.”

“All my jewels and articles of value, then, are packed up?”

“Yes, madame; but hitherto we have been in the habit of leaving them in
Paris. Your ladyship does not generally take your jewels with you into the
country.”

“But they are all in order, you say?”

“Yes, in your ladyship’s own room.”

“The gold plate?”

“In the chest.”

“And the silver plate?”

“In the great oak closet.”

The marquise remained silent for a few moments, and then said calmly, “Let
my goldsmith be sent for.”

Her attendants quitted the room to execute the order. The marquise,
however, had entered her own room, and was inspecting her casket of jewels
with the greatest attention. Never, until now, had she bestowed such close
attention upon riches in which women take so much pride; never, until now,
had she looked at her jewels, except for the purpose of making a selection
according to their settings or their colors. On this occasion, however,
she admired the size of the rubies and the brilliancy of the diamonds; she
grieved over every blemish and every defect; she thought the gold light,
and the stones wretched. The goldsmith, as he entered, found her thus
occupied. “M. Faucheux,” she said, “I believe you supplied me with my gold
service?”

“I did, your ladyship.”

“I do not now remember the amount of the account.”

“Of the new service, madame, or of that which M. de Belliere presented to
you on your marriage? for I have furnished both.”

“First of all, the new one.”

“The covers, the goblets, and the dishes, with their covers, the eau-epergne,
the ice-pails, the dishes for the preserves, and the tea and coffee urns,
cost your ladyship sixty thousand francs.”

“No more?”

“Your ladyship thought the account very high.”

“Yes, yes; I remember, in fact, that it was dear; but it was the
workmanship, I suppose?”

“Yes, madame; the designs, the chasings—all new patterns.”

“What proportion of the cost does the workmanship form? Do not hesitate to
tell me.”

“A third of its value, madame.”

“There is the other service, the old one, that which belonged to my
husband?”

“Yes, madame; there is less workmanship in that than in the other. Its
intrinsic value does not exceed thirty thousand francs.”

“Thirty thousand,” murmured the marquise. “But, M. Faucheux, there is also
the service which belonged to my mother; all that massive plate which I
did not wish to part with, on account of the associations connected with
it.”

“Ah! madame, that would indeed be an excellent resource for those who,
unlike your ladyship, might not be in position to keep their plate. In
chasing that they worked in solid metal. But that service is no longer in
fashion. Its weight is its only advantage.”

“That is all I care about. How much does it weigh?”

“Fifty thousand livres at the very least. I do not allude to the enormous
vases for the buffet, which alone weigh five thousand livres, or ten
thousand the pair.”

“Let us now turn to another subject,” said Madame de Belliere; and she
opened one of her jewel-boxes.

“I recognize these emeralds,” said M. Faucheux; “for it was I who had the
setting of them. They are the most beautiful in the whole court. No, I am
mistaken; Madame de Chatillon has the most beautiful set; she had them
from Messieurs de Guise; but your set, madame, comes next.”

“What are they worth?”

“Mounted?”

“No; supposing I wished to sell them.”

“I know very well who would buy them,” exclaimed M. Faucheux.

“That is the very thing I ask. They could be sold, then?”

“All your jewels could be sold, madame. It is well known that you possess
the most beautiful jewels in Paris. You are not changeable in your tastes;
when you make a purchase it is of the very best; and what you purchase you
do not part with.”

“What could these emeralds be sold for, then?”

“A hundred and thirty thousand francs.”

The marquise wrote down upon her tablets the amount which the jeweler
mentioned. “The ruby necklace?” she said.

“Are they balas-rubies, madame?”

“Here they are.”

“They are beautiful—magnificent. I did not know your ladyship had
these stones.”

“What is their value?”

“Two hundred thousand francs. The center one is alone worth a hundred
thousand.”

“I thought so,” said the marquise. “As for diamonds, I have them in
numbers; rings, necklaces, sprigs, ear-rings, clasps. Tell me their value,
M. Faucheux.”

The jeweler took his magnifying-glass and scales, weighed and inspected
them, and silently made his calculations. “These stones,” he said, “must
have cost your ladyship an income of forty thousand francs.”

“You value them at eight hundred thousand francs?”

“Nearly so.”

“It is about what I imagined—but the settings are not included?”

“No, madame; but if I were called upon to sell or to buy, I should be
satisfied with the gold of the settings alone as my profit upon the
transaction. I should make a good twenty-five thousand francs.”

“An agreeable sum.”

“Very much so, madame.”

“Will you then accept that profit, then, on condition of converting the
jewels into money?”

“But you do not intend to sell you diamonds, I suppose, madame?” exclaimed
the bewildered jeweler.

“Silence, M. Faucheux, do not disturb yourself about that; give me an
answer simply. You are an honorable man, with whom my family has dealt for
thirty years; you knew my father and mother, whom your own father and
mother served. I address you as a friend; will you accept the gold of the
settings in return for a sum of ready money to be placed in my hands?”

“Eight hundred thousand francs! it is enormous.”

“I know it.”

“Impossible to find.”

“Not so.”

“But reflect, madame, upon the effect which will be produced by the sale
of your jewels.”

“No one need know it. You can get sets of false jewels made for me,
similar to the real. Do not answer a word; I insist upon it. Sell them
separately, sell the stones only.”

“In that way it is easy. Monsieur is looking out for some sets of jewels
as well as single stones for Madame’s toilette. There will be a
competition for them. I can easily dispose of six hundred thousand francs’
worth to Monsieur. I am certain yours are the most beautiful.”

“When can you do so?”

“In less than three days’ time.”

“Very well, the remainder you will dispose of among private individuals.
For the present, make me out a contract of sale, payment to be made in
four days.”

“I entreat you to reflect, madame; for if you force the sale, you will
lose a hundred thousand francs.”

“If necessary, I will lose two hundred; I wish everything to be settled
this evening. Do you accept?”

“I do, your ladyship. I will not conceal from you that I shall make fifty
thousand francs by the transaction.”

“So much the better for you. In what way shall I have the money?”

“Either in gold, or in bills of the bank of Lyons, payable at M.
Colbert’s.”

“I agree,” said the marquise, eagerly; “return home and bring the sum in
question in notes, as soon as possible.”

“Yes, madame, but for Heaven’s sake—”

“Not a word, M. Faucheux. By the by, I was forgetting the silver plate.
What is the value of that which I have?”

“Fifty thousand francs, madame.”

“That makes a million,” said the marquise to herself. “M. Faucheux, you
will take away with you both the gold and silver plate. I can assign, as a
pretext, that I wish it remodeled on patters more in accordance with my
own taste. Melt it down, and return me its value in money, at once.”

“It shall be done, your ladyship.”

“You will be good enough to place the money in a chest, and direct one of
your clerks to accompany the chest, and without my servants seeing him;
and order him to wait for me in a carriage.”

“In Madame de Faucheux’s carriage?” said the jeweler.

“If you will allow it, and I will call for it at your house.”

“Certainly, your ladyship.”

“I will direct some of my servants to convey the plate to your house.” The
marquise rung. “Let the small van be placed at M. Faucheux’s disposal,”
she said. The jeweler bowed and left the house, directing that the van
should follow him closely, saying aloud, that the marquise was about to
have her plate melted down in order to have other plate manufactured of a
more modern style. Three hours afterwards she went to M. Faucheux’s house
and received from him eight hundred francs in gold inclosed in a chest,
which one of the clerks could hardly carry towards Madame Faucheux’s
carriage—for Madame Faucheux kept her carriage. As the daughter of a
president of accounts, she had brought a marriage portion of thirty
thousand crowns to her husband, who was syndic of the goldsmiths. These
thirty thousand crowns had become very fruitful during twenty years. The
jeweler, though a millionaire, was a modest man. He had purchased a
substantial carriage, built in 1648, ten years after the king’s birth.
This carriage, or rather house upon wheels, excited the admiration of the
whole quarter in which he resided—it was covered with allegorical
paintings, and clouds scattered over with stars. The marquise entered this
somewhat extraordinary vehicle, sitting opposite the clerk, who endeavored
to put his knees out of the way, afraid even of touching the marquise’s
dress. It was the clerk, too, who told the coachman, who was very proud of
having a marquise to drive, to take the road to Saint-Mande.

Chapter XXVIII. The Dowry.

Monsieur Faucheux’s horses were serviceable animals, with thickset knees
and legs that had some difficulty in moving. Like the carriage, they
belonged to the earlier part of the century. They were not as fleet as the
English horses of M. Fouquet, and consequently it took two hours to get to
Saint-Mande. Their progress, it might be said, was majestic. Majesty,
however, precludes hurry. The marquise stopped the carriage at the door so
well known to her, although she had seen it only once, under
circumstances, it will now be remembered, no less painful than those which
brought her now to it again. She drew a key from her pocket, and inserted
it into the lock, pushed open the door, which noiselessly yielded to her
touch, and directed the clerk to carry the chest upstairs to the first
floor. The weight of the chest was so great that the clerk was obliged to
get the coachman to assist him with it. They placed it in a small cabinet,
ante-room, or boudoir rather, adjoining the saloon where we once saw M.
Fouquet at the marquise’s feet. Madame de Belliere gave the coachman a
louis, smiled gracefully at the clerk, and dismissed them both. She closed
the door after them, and waited in the room, alone and barricaded. There
was no servant to be seen about the rooms, but everything was prepared as
though some invisible genius had divined the wishes and desires of an
expected guest. The fire was laid, candles in the candelabra, refreshments
upon the table, books scattered about, fresh-cut flowers in the vases. One
might almost have imagined it an enchanted house.

The marquise lighted the candles, inhaled the perfume of the flowers, sat
down, and was soon plunged in profound thought. Her deep musings,
melancholy though they were, were not untinged with a certain vague joy.
Spread out before her was a treasure, a million wrung from her fortune as
a gleaner plucks the blue corn-flower from her crown of flowers. She
conjured up the sweetest dreams. Her principal thought, and one that took
precedence of all others, was to devise means of leaving this money for M.
Fouquet without his possibly learning from whom the gift had come. This
idea, naturally enough, was the first to present itself to her mind. But
although, on reflection, it appeared difficult to carry out, she did not
despair of success. She would then ring to summon M. Fouquet and make her
escape, happier than if, instead of having given a million, she had
herself found one. But, being there, and having seen the boudoir so
coquettishly decorated that it might almost be said the least particle of
dust had but the moment before been removed by the servants; having
observed the drawing-room, so perfectly arranged that it might almost be
said her presence there had driven away the fairies who were its
occupants, she asked herself if the glance or gaze of those whom she had
displaced—whether spirits, fairies, elves, or human creatures—had
not already recognized her. To secure success, it was necessary that some
steps should be seriously taken, and it was necessary also that the
superintendent should comprehend the serious position in which he was
placed, in order to yield compliance with the generous fancies of a woman;
all the fascinations of an eloquent friendship would be required to
persuade him, and, should this be insufficient, the maddening influence of
a devoted passion, which, in its resolute determination to carry
conviction, would not be turned aside. Was not the superintendent, indeed,
known for his delicacy and dignity of feeling? Would he allow himself to
accept from any woman that of which she had stripped herself? No! He would
resist, and if any voice in the world could overcome his resistance, it
would be the voice of the woman he loved.

Another doubt, and that a cruel one, suggested itself to Madame de
Belliere with a sharp, acute pain, like a dagger thrust. Did he really
love her? Would that volatile mind, that inconstant heart, be likely to be
fixed for a moment, even were it to gaze upon an angel? Was it not the
same with Fouquet, notwithstanding his genius and his uprightness of
conduct, as with those conquerors on the field of battle who shed tears
when they have gained a victory? “I must learn if it be so, and must judge
of that for myself,” said the marquise. “Who can tell whether that heart,
so coveted, is not common in its impulses, and full of alloy? Who can tell
if that mind, when the touchstone is applied to it, will not be found of a
mean and vulgar character? Come, come,” she said, “this is doubting and
hesitation too much—to the proof,” she said, looking at the
timepiece. “It is now seven o’clock,” she said; “he must have arrived; it
is the hour for signing his papers.” With a feverish impatience she rose
and walked towards the mirror, in which she smiled with a resolute smile
of devotedness; she touched the spring and drew out the handle of the
bell. Then, as if exhausted beforehand by the struggle she had just
undergone, she threw herself on her knees, in utter abandonment, before a
large couch, in which she buried her face in her trembling hands. Ten
minutes afterwards she heard the spring of the door sound. The door moved
upon invisible hinges, and Fouquet appeared. He looked pale, and seemed
bowed down by the weight of some bitter reflection. He did not hurry, but
simply came at the summons. The preoccupation of his mind must indeed have
been very great, that a man, so devoted to pleasure, for whom indeed
pleasure meant everything, should obey such a summons so listlessly. The
previous night, in fact, fertile in melancholy ideas, had sharpened his
features, generally so noble in their indifference of expression, and had
traced dark lines of anxiety around his eyes. Handsome and noble he still
was, and the melancholy expression of his mouth, a rare expression with
men, gave a new character to his features, by which his youth seemed to be
renewed. Dressed in black, the lace in front of his chest much disarranged
by his feverishly restless hand, the looks of the superintendent, full of
dreamy reflection, were fixed upon the threshold of the room which he had
so frequently approached in search of expected happiness. This gloomy
gentleness of manner, this smiling sadness of expression, which had
replaced his former excessive joy, produced an indescribable effect upon
Madame de Belliere, who was regarding him at a distance.

A woman’s eye can read the face of the man she loves, its every feeling of
pride, its every expression of suffering; it might almost be said that
Heaven has graciously granted to women, on account of their very weakness,
more than it has accorded to other creatures. They can conceal their own
feelings from a man, but from them no man can conceal his. The marquise
divined in a single glace the whole weight of the unhappiness of the
superintendent. She divined a night passed without sleep, a day passed in
deceptions. From that moment she was firm in her own strength, and she
felt that she loved Fouquet beyond everything else. She arose and
approached him, saying, “You wrote to me this morning to say you were
beginning to forget me, and that I, whom you had not seen lately, had no
doubt ceased to think of you. I have come to undeceive you, monsieur, and
the more completely so, because there is one thing I can read in your
eyes.”

“What is that, madame?” said Fouquet, astonished.

“That you have never loved me so much as at this moment; in the same
manner you can read, in my present step towards you, that I have not
forgotten you.”

“Oh! madame,” said Fouquet, whose face was for a moment lighted up by a
sudden gleam of joy, “you are indeed an angel, and no man can suspect you.
All he can do is to humble himself before you and entreat forgiveness.”

“Your forgiveness is granted, then,” said the marquise. Fouquet was about
to throw himself upon his knees. “No, no,” she said, “sit here by my side.
Ah! that is an evil thought which has just crossed your mind.”

“How do you detect it, madame?”

“By the smile that has just marred the expression of your countenance. Be
candid, and tell me what your thought was—no secrets between
friends.”

“Tell me, then, madame, why you have been so harsh these three or four
months past?”

“Harsh?”

“Yes; did you not forbid me to visit you?”

“Alas!” said Madame de Belliere, sighing, “because your visit to me was
the cause of your being visited with a great misfortune; because my house
is watched; because the same eyes that have seen you already might see you
again; because I think it less dangerous for you that I should come here
than that you should come to my house; and, lastly, because I know you to
be already unhappy enough not to wish to increase your unhappiness
further.”

Fouquet started, for these words recalled all the anxieties connected with
his office of superintendent—he who, for the last few minutes, had
indulged in all the wild aspirations of the lover. “I unhappy?” he said,
endeavoring to smile: “indeed, marquise, you will almost make me believe I
am so, judging from your own sadness. Are your beautiful eyes raised upon
me merely in pity? I was looking for another expression from them.”

“It is not I who am sad, monsieur; look in the mirror, there—it is
yourself.”

“It is true I am somewhat pale, marquise; but it is from overwork; the
king yesterday required a supply of money from me.”

“Yes, four millions; I am aware of it.”

“You know it?” exclaimed Fouquet, in a tone of surprise; “how can you have
learnt it? It was after the departure of the queen, and in the presence of
one person only, that the king—”

“You perceive that I do know it; is that not sufficient? Well, go on,
monsieur, the money the king has required you to supply—”

“You understand, marquise, that I have been obliged to procure it, then to
get it counted, afterwards registered—altogether a long affair.
Since Monsieur de Mazarin’s death, financial affairs occasion some little
fatigue and embarrassment. My administration is somewhat overtaxed, and
this is the reason why I have not slept during the past night.”

“So you have the amount?” inquired the marquise, with some anxiety.

“It would indeed be strange, marquise,” replied Fouquet, cheerfully, “if a
superintendent of finances were not to have a paltry four millions in his
coffers.”

“Yes, yes, I believe you either have, or will have them.”

“What do you mean by saying I shall have them?”

“It is not very long since you were required to furnish two millions.”

“On the contrary, it seems almost an age; but do not let us talk of money
matters any longer.”

“On the contrary, we will continue to speak of them, for that is my only
reason for coming to see you.”

“I am at a loss to compass your meaning,” said the superintendent, whose
eyes began to express an anxious curiosity.

“Tell me, monsieur, is the office of superintendent a permanent position?”

“You surprise me, marchioness, for you speak as if you had some motive or
interest in putting the question.”

“My reason is simple enough; I am desirous of placing some money in your
hands, and naturally I wish to know if you are certain of your post.”

“Really, marquise, I am at a loss what to reply; I cannot conceive your
meaning.”

“Seriously, then, dear M. Fouquet, I have certain funds which somewhat
embarrass me. I am tired of investing my money in lands, and am anxious to
intrust it to some friend who will turn it to account.”

“Surely it does not press,” said M. Fouquet.

“On the contrary, it is very pressing.”

“Very well, we will talk of that by and by.”

“By and by will not do, for my money is there,” returned the marquise,
pointing out the coffer to the superintendent, and showing him, as she
opened it, the bundles of notes and heaps of gold. Fouquet, who had risen
from his seat at the same moment as Madame de Belliere, remained for a
moment plunged in thought; then suddenly starting back, he turned pale,
and sank down in his chair, concealing his face in his hands. “Madame,
madame,” he murmured, “what opinion can you have of me, when you make me
such an offer?”

“Of you!” returned the marquise. “Tell me, rather, what you yourself think
of the step I have taken.”

“You bring me this money for myself, and you bring it because you know me
to be embarrassed. Nay, do not deny it, for I am sure of it. Can I not
read your heart?”

“If you know my heart, then, can you not see that it is my heart I offer
you?”

“I have guessed rightly, then,” exclaimed Fouquet. “In truth, madame, I
have never yet given you the right to insult me in this manner.”

“Insult you,” she said, turning pale, “what singular delicacy of feeling!
You tell me you love me; in the name of that affection you wish me to
sacrifice my reputation and my honor, yet, when I offer you money which is
my own, you refuse me.”

“Madame, you are at liberty to preserve what you term your reputation and
your honor. Permit me to preserve mine. Leave me to my ruin, leave me to
sink beneath the weight of the hatreds which surround me, beneath the
faults I have committed, beneath the load, even, of my remorse, but, for
Heaven’s sake, madame, do not overwhelm me with this last infliction.”

“A short time since, M. Fouquet, you were wanting in judgment; now you are
wanting in feeling.”

Fouquet pressed his clenched hand upon his breast, heaving with emotion,
saying: “overwhelm me, madame, for I have nothing to reply.”

“I offered you my friendship, M. Fouquet.”

“Yes, madame, and you limited yourself to that.”

“And what I am now doing is the act of a friend.”

“No doubt it is.”

“And you reject this mark of my friendship?”

“I do reject it.”

“Monsieur Fouquet, look at me,” said the marquise, with glistening eyes,
“I now offer you my love.”

“Oh, madame,” exclaimed Fouquet.

“I have loved you for a long while past; women, like men, have a false
delicacy at times. For a long time past I have loved you, but would not
confess it. Well, then, you have implored this love on your knees, and I
have refused you; I was blind, as you were a little while since; but as it
was my love that you sought, it is my love I now offer you.”

“Oh! madame, you overwhelm me beneath a load of happiness.”

“Will you be happy, then, if I am yours—entirely?”

“It will be the supremest happiness for me.”

“Take me, then. If, however, for your sake I sacrifice a prejudice, do
you, for mine, sacrifice a scruple.”

“Do not tempt me.”

“Do not refuse me.”

“Think seriously of what you are proposing.”

“Fouquet, but one word. Let it be ‘No,’ and I open this door,” and she
pointed to the door which led into the streets, “and you will never see me
again. Let that word be ‘Yes,’ and I am yours entirely.”

“Elise! Elise! But this coffer?”

“Contains my dowry.”

“It is your ruin,” exclaimed Fouquet, turning over the gold and papers;
“there must be a million here.”

“Yes, my jewels, for which I care no longer if you do not love me, and for
which, equally, I care no longer if you love me as I love you.”

“This is too much,” exclaimed Fouquet. “I yield, I yield, even were it
only to consecrate so much devotion. I accept the dowry.”

“And take the woman with it,” said the marquise, throwing herself into his
arms.

Chapter XXIX. Le Terrain de Dieu.

During the progress of these events Buckingham and De Wardes traveled in
excellent companionship, and made the journey from Paris to Calais in
undisturbed harmony together. Buckingham had hurried his departure, so
that the greater part of his adieux were very hastily made. His
visit to Monsieur and Madame, to the young queen, and to the
queen-dowager, had been paid collectively—a precaution on the part
of the queen-mother which saved him the distress of any private
conversation with Monsieur, and also the danger of seeing Madame again.
The carriages containing the luggage had already been sent on beforehand,
and in the evening he set off in his traveling carriage with his
attendants.

De Wardes, irritated at finding himself dragged away in so abrupt a manner
by this Englishman, had sought in his subtle mind for some means of
escaping from his fetters; but no one having rendered him any assistance
in this respect, he was absolutely obliged, therefore, to submit to the
burden of his own evil thoughts and caustic spirit.

Such of his friends in whom he had been able to confide, had, in their
character of wits, rallied him upon the duke’s superiority. Others, less
brilliant, but more sensible, had reminded him of the king’s orders
prohibiting dueling. Others, again, and they the larger number, who, in
virtue of charity, or national vanity, might have rendered him assistance,
did not care to run the risk of incurring disgrace, and would, at the
best, have informed the ministers of a departure which might end in a
massacre on a small scale. The result was, that, after having fully
deliberated upon the matter, De Wardes packed up his luggage, took a
couple of horses, and, followed only by one servant, made his way towards
the barrier, where Buckingham’s carriage was to await him.

The duke received his adversary as he would have done an intimate
acquaintance, made room beside him on the same seat with himself, offered
him refreshments, and spread over his knees the sable cloak that had been
thrown on the front seat. They then conversed of the court, without
alluding to Madame; of Monsieur, without speaking of domestic affairs; of
the king, without speaking of his brother’s wife; of the queen-mother,
without alluding to her daughter-in-law; of the king of England, without
alluding to his sister; of the state of the affections of either of the
travelers, without pronouncing any name that might be dangerous. In this
way the journey, which was performed by short stages, was most agreeable,
and Buckingham, almost a Frenchman from wit and education, was delighted
at having so admirably selected his traveling companion. Elegant repasts
were served, of which they partook but lightly; trials of horses made in
the beautiful meadows that skirted the road; coursing indulged in, for
Buckingham had his greyhounds with him; and in such ways did they pass
away the pleasant time. The duke somewhat resembled the beautiful river
Seine, which folds France a thousand times in its loving embrace, before
deciding upon joining its waters with the ocean. In quitting France, it
was her recently adopted daughter he had brought to Paris whom he chiefly
regretted; his every thought was a remembrance of her—his every
memory a regret. Therefore, whenever, now and then, despite his command
over himself, he was lost in thought, De Wardes left him entirely to his
musings. This delicacy might have touched Buckingham, and changed his
feelings towards De Wardes, if the latter, while preserving silence, had
shown a glance less full of malice, and a smile less false. Instinctive
dislikes, however, are relentless; nothing appeases them; a few ashes may,
sometimes, apparently, extinguish them; but beneath those ashes the
smothered embers rage more furiously. Having exhausted every means of
amusement the route offered, they arrived, as we have said, at Calais
towards the end of the sixth day. The duke’s attendants, since the
previous evening, had traveled in advance, and now chartered a boat, for
the purpose of joining the yacht, which had been tacking about in sight,
or bore broadside on, whenever it felt its white wings wearied, within
cannon-shot of the jetty.

The boat was destined for the transport of the duke’s equipages from the
shore to the yacht. The horses had been embarked, having been hoisted from
the boat upon the deck in baskets, expressly made for the purpose, and
wadded in such a manner that their limbs, even in the most violent fits of
terror or impatience, were always protected by the soft support which the
sides afforded, and their coats not even turned. Eight of these baskets,
placed side by side, filled the ship’s hold. It is well known that, in
short voyages horses refuse to eat, but remain trembling all the while,
with the best of food before them, such as they would have greatly coveted
on land. By degrees, the duke’s entire equipage was transported on board
the yacht; he was then informed that everything was in readiness, and that
they only waited for him, whenever he would be disposed to embark with the
French gentleman; for no one could possibly imagine that the French
gentleman would have any other accounts to settle with his Grace other
than those of friendship. Buckingham desired the captain to be told to
hold himself in readiness, but that, as the sea was beautiful, and as the
day promised a splendid sunset, he did not intend to go on board until
nightfall, and would avail himself of the evening to enjoy a walk on the
strand. He added also, that, finding himself in such excellent company, he
had not the least desire to hasten his embarkation.

As he said this he pointed out to those who surrounded him the
magnificent spectacle which the sky presented, of deepest azure in the
horizon, the amphitheatre of fleecy clouds ascending from the sun’s disc
to the zenith, assuming the appearance of a range of snowy mountains,
whose summits were heaped one upon another. The dome of clouds was
tinged at its base with, as it were, the foam of rubies, fading away
into opal and pearly tints, in proportion as the gaze was carried from
base to summit. The sea was gilded with the same reflection, and upon
the crest of every sparkling wave danced a point of light, like a
diamond by lamplight. The mildness of the evening, the sea breezes, so
dear to contemplative minds, setting in from the east and blowing in
delicious gusts; then, in the distance, the black outline of the yacht
with its rigging traced upon the empurpled background of the sky—while,
dotting the horizon, might be seen, here and there, vessels with their
trimmed sails, like the wings of a seagull about to plunge; such a
spectacle indeed well merited admiration. A crowd of curious idlers
followed the richly dressed attendants, amongst whom they mistook
the steward and the secretary for the master and his friend. As for
Buckingham, who was dressed very simply, in a gray satin vest, and
doublet of violet-colored velvet, wearing his hat thrust over his eyes,
and without orders or embroidery, he was taken no more notice of than De
Wardes, who was in black, like an attorney.

The duke’s attendants had received directions to have a boat in
readiness at the jetty head, and to watch the embarkation of their
master, without approaching him until either he or his friend should
summon them,—“whatever may happen,” he had added, laying a stress upon
these words, so that they might not be misunderstood. Having walked a
few paces upon the strand, Buckingham said to De Wardes, “I think it is
now time to take leave of each other. The tide, you perceive, is rising;
ten minutes hence it will have soaked the sands where we are now walking
in such a manner that we shall not be able to keep our footing.”

“I await your orders, my lord, but—”

“But, you mean, we are still upon soil which is part of the king’s
territory.”

“Exactly.”

“Well, do you see yonder a kind of little island surrounded by a circle of
water? The pool is increasing every minute, and the isle is gradually
disappearing. This island, indeed, belongs to Heaven, for it is situated
between two seas, and is not shown on the king’s charts. Do you observe
it?”

“Yes; but we can hardly reach it now, without getting our feet wet.”

“Yes; but observe that it forms an eminence tolerably high, and that the
tide rises up on every side, leaving the top free. We shall be admirably
placed upon that little theatre. What do you think of it?”

“I shall be perfectly happy wherever I may have the honor of crossing my
sword with your lordship’s.”

“Very well, then, I am distressed to be the cause of your wetting your
feet, M. de Wardes, but it is most essential you should be able to say to
the king: ‘Sire, I did not fight upon your majesty’s territory.’ Perhaps
the distinction is somewhat subtle, but, since Port-Royal, your nation
delights in subtleties of expression. Do not let us complain of this,
however, for it makes your wit very brilliant, and of a style peculiarly
your own. If you do not object, we will hurry ourselves, for the sea, I
perceive, is rising fast, and night is setting in.”

“My reason for not walking faster was, that I did not wish to precede your
Grace. Are you still on dry land, my lord?”

“Yes, at present I am. Look yonder! My servants are afraid we shall be
drowned, and have converted the boat into a cruiser. Do you remark how
curiously it dances upon the crests of the waves? But, as it makes me feel
sea-sick, would you permit me to turn my back towards them?”

“You will observe, my lord, that in turning your back to them, you will
have the sun full in your face.”

“Oh, its rays are very feeble at this hour and it will soon disappear; do
not be uneasy on that score.”

“As you please, my lord; it was out of consideration for your lordship
that I made the remark.”

“I am aware of that, M. de Wardes, and I fully appreciate your kindness.
Shall we take off our doublets?”

“As you please, my lord.”

“Do not hesitate to tell me, M. de Wardes, if you do not feel comfortable
upon the wet sand, or if you think yourself a little too close to French
territory. We could fight in England, or even upon my yacht.”

“We are exceedingly well placed here, my lord; only I have the honor to
remark that, as the sea is rising fast, we have hardly time—”

Buckingham made a sign of assent, took off his doublet and threw it on the
ground, a proceeding which De Wardes imitated. Both their bodies, which
seemed like phantoms to those who were looking at them from the shore,
were thrown strongly into relief by a dark red violet-colored shadow with
which the sky became overspread.

“Upon my word, your Grace,” said De Wardes, “we shall hardly have time to
begin. Do you not perceive how our feet are sinking into the sand?”

“I have sunk up to the ankles,” said Buckingham, “without reckoning that
the water is even now breaking in upon us.”

“It has already reached me. As soon as you please, therefore, your Grace,”
said De Wardes, who drew his sword, a movement imitated by the duke.

“M. de Wardes,” said Buckingham, “one final word. I am about to fight you
because I do not like you,—because you have wounded me in ridiculing
a certain devotional regard I have entertained, and one which I
acknowledge that, at this moment, I still retain, and for which I would
very willingly die. You are a bad and heartless man, M. de Wardes, and I
will do my very utmost to take your life; for I feel assured that, if you
survive this engagement, you will, in the future, work great mischief
towards my friends. That is all I have to remark, M. de Wardes,” concluded
Buckingham as he saluted him.

“And I, my lord, have only this to reply to you: I have not disliked you
hitherto, but, since you give me such a character, I hate you, and will do
all I possibly can to kill you;” and De Wardes saluted Buckingham.

Their swords crossed at the same moment, like two flashes of lightning on
a dark night. The swords seemed to seek each other, guessed their
position, and met. Both were practiced swordsmen, and the earlier passes
were without any result. The night was fast closing in, and it was so dark
that they attacked and defended themselves almost instinctively. Suddenly
De Wardes felt his word arrested,—he had just touched Buckingham’s
shoulder. The duke’s sword sunk, as his arm was lowered.

“You are wounded, my lord,” said De Wardes, drawing back a step or two.

“Yes, monsieur, but only slightly.”

“Yet you quitted your guard.”

“Only from the first effect of the cold steel, but I have recovered. Let
us go on, if you please.” And disengaging his sword with a sinister
clashing of the blade, the duke wounded the marquis in the breast.

“A hit?” he said.

“No,” cried De Wardes, not moving from his place.

“I beg your pardon, but observing that your shirt was stained—” said
Buckingham.

“Well,” said De Wardes furiously, “it is now your turn.”

And with a terrible lunge, he pierced Buckingham’s arm, the sword passing
between the two bones. Buckingham feeling his right arm paralyzed,
stretched out his left, seized his sword, which was about falling from his
nerveless grasp, and before De Wardes could resume his guard, he thrust
him through the breast. De Wardes tottered, his knees gave way beneath
him, and leaving his sword still fixed in the duke’s arm, he fell into the
water, which was soon crimsoned with a more genuine reflection than that
which it had borrowed from the clouds. De Wardes was not dead; he felt the
terrible danger that menaced him, for the sea rose fast. The duke, too,
perceived the danger. With an effort and an exclamation of pain he tore
out the blade which remained in his arm, and turning towards De Wardes
said, “Are you dead, marquis?”

“No,” replied De Wardes, in a voice choked by the blood which rushed from
his lungs to his throat, “but very near it.”

“Well, what is to be done; can you walk?” said Buckingham, supporting him
on his knee.

“Impossible,” he replied. Then falling down again, said, “call to your
people, or I shall be drowned.”

“Halloa! boat there! quick, quick!”

The boat flew over the waves, but the sea rose faster than the boat could
approach. Buckingham saw that De Wardes was on the point of being again
covered by a wave; he passed his left arm, safe and unwounded, round his
body and raised him up. The wave ascended to his waist, but did not move
him. The duke immediately began to carry his late antagonist towards the
shore. He had hardly gone ten paces, when a second wave, rushing onwards
higher, more furious and menacing than the former, struck him at the
height of his chest, threw him over and buried him beneath the water. At
the reflux, however, the duke and De Wardes were discovered lying on the
strand. De Wardes had fainted. At this moment four of the duke’s sailors,
who comprehended the danger, threw themselves into the sea, and in a
moment were close beside him. Their terror was extreme when they observed
how their master became covered with blood, in proportion to the water,
with which it was impregnated, flowed towards his knees and feet; they
wished to carry him.

“No, no,” exclaimed the duke, “take the marquis on shore first.”

“Death to the Frenchman!” cried the English sullenly.

“Wretched knaves!” exclaimed the duke, drawing himself up with a haughty
gesture, which sprinkled them with blood, “obey directly! M. de Wardes on
shore! M. de Wardes’s safety to be looked to first, or I will have you all
hanged!”

The boat had by this time reached them; the secretary and steward leaped
into the sea, and approached the marquis, who no longer showed any sign of
life.

“I commit him to your care, as you value your lives,” said the duke. “Take
M. de Wardes on shore.” They took him in their arms, and carried him to
the dry sand, where the tide never rose so high. A few idlers and five or
six fishermen had gathered on the shore, attracted by the strange
spectacle of two men fighting with the water up to their knees. The
fishermen, observing a group of men approaching carrying a wounded man,
entered the sea until the water was up to their waists. The English
transferred the wounded man to them, at the very moment the latter began
to open his eyes again. The salt water and the fine sand had got into his
wounds, and caused him the acutest pain. The duke’s secretary drew out a
purse filled with gold from his pocket, and handed it to the one among
those present who appeared of most importance, saying: “From my master,
his Grace the Duke of Buckingham, in order that every possible care may be
taken of the Marquis de Wardes.”

Then, followed by those who had accompanied him, he returned to the boat,
which Buckingham had been enabled to reach with the greatest difficulty,
but only after he had seen De Wardes out of danger. By this time it was
high tide; embroidered coats, and silk sashes were lost; many hats, too,
had been carried away by the waves. The flow of the tide had borne the
duke’s and De Wardes’s clothes to the shore, and De Wardes was wrapped in
the duke’s doublet, under the belief that it was his own, when the
fishermen carried him in their arms towards the town.

Chapter XXX. Threefold Love.

As soon as Buckingham departed, Guiche imagined the coast would be
perfectly clear for him without any interference. Monsieur, who no longer
retained the slightest feeling of jealousy, and who, besides, permitted
himself to be monopolized by the Chevalier de Lorraine, allowed as much
liberty and freedom in his house as the most exacting could desire. The
king, on his side, who had conceived a strong predilection for his
sister-in-law’s society, invented a variety of amusements, in quick
succession to each other, in order to render her residence in Paris as
cheerful as possible, so that in fact, not a day passed without a ball at
the Palais Royal, or a reception in Monsieur’s apartments. The king had
directed that Fontainebleau should be prepared for the reception of the
court, and every one was using his utmost interest to get invited. Madame
led a life of incessant occupation; neither her voice nor her pen were
idle for a moment. The conversations with De Guiche were gradually
assuming a tone of interest which might unmistakably be recognized as the
prelude of a deep-seated attachment. When eyes look languishingly while
the subject under discussion happens to be colors of materials for
dresses; when a whole hour is occupied in analyzing the merits and the
perfume of a sachet or a flower;—there are words in this
style of conversation which every one might listen to, but there are
gestures and sighs that every one cannot perceive. After Madame had talked
for some time with De Guiche, she conversed with the king, who paid her a
visit regularly every day. They played, wrote verses, or selected mottoes
or emblematical devices; this spring was not only the Maytide of nature,
it was the youth of an entire people, of which those at court were the
head. The king was handsome, young, and of unequaled gallantry. All women
were passionately loved by him, even the queen, his wife. This mighty
monarch was, however, more timid and more reserved than any other person
in the kingdom, to such a degree, indeed, that he did not confess his
sentiments even to himself. This timidity of bearing restrained him within
the limits of ordinary politeness, and no woman could boast of having any
preference shown her beyond that shown to others. It might be foretold
that the day when his real character would be displayed would be the dawn
of a new sovereignty; but as yet he had not declared himself. M. de Guiche
took advantage of this, and constituted himself the sovereign prince of
the whole laughter-loving court. It had been reported that he was on the
best of terms with Mademoiselle de Montalais; that he had been assiduously
attentive to Mademoiselle de Chatillon; but now he was not even barely
civil to any of the court beauties. He had eyes and ears for one person
alone. In this manner, and, as it were, without design, he devoted himself
to Monsieur, who had a great regard for him, and kept him as much as
possible in his own apartments. Unsociable from natural disposition, he
had estranged himself too much previous to the arrival of Madame, but,
after her arrival, he did not estrange himself sufficiently. This conduct,
which every one had observed, had been particularly remarked by the evil
genius of the house, the Chevalier de Lorraine, for whom Monsieur
exhibited the warmest attachment because he was of a very cheerful
disposition, even in his remarks most full of malice, and because he was
never at a loss how to wile the time away. The Chevalier de Lorraine,
therefore, having noticed that he was threatened with being supplanted by
De Guiche, resorted to strong measures. He disappeared from the court,
leaving Monsieur much embarrassed. The first day of his absence, Monsieur
hardly inquired about him, for he had De Guiche with him, and, except that
the time given to conversation with Madame, his days and nights were
rigorously devoted to the prince. On the second day, however, Monsieur,
finding no one near him, inquired where the chevalier was. He was told
that no one knew.

De Guiche, after having spent the morning in selecting embroideries and
fringes with Madame, went to console the prince. But after dinner, as
there were some amethysts to be looked at, De Guiche returned to Madame’s
cabinet. Monsieur was left quite to himself during the time devoted to
dressing and decorating himself; he felt that he was the most miserable of
men, and again inquired whether there was any news of the chevalier, in
reply to which he was told that no one could tell where the chevalier was
to be found. Monsieur, hardly knowing in what direction to inflict his
weariness, went to Madame’s apartments dressed in his morning-gown. He
found a large assemblage of people there, laughing and whispering in every
part of the room; at one end, a group of women around one of the
courtiers, talking together, amid smothered bursts of laughter; at the
other end, Manicamp and Malicorne were being pillaged at cards by
Montalais and Mademoiselle de Tonnay-Charente, while two others were
standing by, laughing. In another part were Madame, seated upon some
cushions on the floor, and De Guiche, on his knees beside her, spreading
out a handful of pearls and precious stones, while the princess, with her
white and slender fingers pointed out such among them as pleased her the
most. Again, in another corner of the room, a guitar player was playing
some of the Spanish seguedillas, to which Madame had taken the greatest
fancy ever since she had heard them sung by the young queen with a
melancholy expression of voice. But the songs which the Spanish princess
had sung with tears in her eyes, the young Englishwoman was humming with a
smile that well displayed her beautiful teeth. The cabinet presented, in
fact, the most perfect representation of unrestrained pleasure and
amusement. As he entered, Monsieur was struck at beholding so many persons
enjoying themselves without him. He was so jealous at the sight that he
could not resist exclaiming, like a child, “What! you are amusing
yourselves here, while I am sick and tired of being alone!”

The sound of his voice was like a clap of thunder coming to interrupt the
warbling of birds under the leafy covert of the trees; a dead silence
ensued. De Guiche was on his feet in a moment. Malicorne tried to hide
himself behind Montalais. Manicamp stood bolt upright, and assumed a very
ceremonious demeanor. The guitar player thrust his instrument under a
table, covering it with a piece of carpet to conceal it from the prince’s
observation. Madame was the only one who did not move, and smiling at her
husband, said, “Is not this the hour you usually devote to your toilette?”

This untoward remark was the signal for a general rout; the women fled
like a flock of terrified starlings; the guitar player vanished like a
shadow; Malicorne, still protected by Montalais, who purposely widened out
her dress, glided behind the hanging tapestry. As for Manicamp, he went to
the assistance of De Guiche, who naturally remained near Madame, and both
of them, with the princess herself, courageously sustained the attack. The
count was too happy to bear malice against the husband; but Monsieur bore
a grudge against his wife. Nothing was wanting but a quarrel; he sought
it, and the hurried departure of the crowd, which had been so joyous
before he arrived, and was so disturbed by his entrance, furnished him
with a pretext.

“Why do they run away at the very sight of me?” he inquired, in a
supercilious tone; to which remark Madame replied, that, “whenever the
master of the house made his appearance, the family kept aloof out of
respect.” As she said this, she made so funny and so pretty a grimace,
that De Guiche and Manicamp could not control themselves; they burst into
a peal of laugher; Madame followed their example, and even Monsieur
himself could not resist it, and he was obliged to sit down, as, for
laughing, he could scarcely keep his equilibrium. However, he very soon
left off, but his anger had increased. He was still more furious because
he had permitted himself to laugh, than from having seen others laugh. He
looked at Manicamp steadily, not venturing to show his anger towards De
Guiche; but, at a sign which displayed no little amount of annoyance,
Manicamp and De Guiche left the room, so that Madame, left alone, began
sadly to pick up her pearls and amethysts, no longer smiling, and speaking
still less.

“I am very happy,” said the duke, “to find myself treated as a stranger
here, Madame,” and he left the room in a passion. On his way out, he met
Montalais, who was in attendance in the ante-room. “It is very agreeable
to pay you a visit here, but outside the door.”

Montalais made a very low obeisance. “I do not quite understand what your
royal highness does me the honor to say.”

“I say that when you are all laughing together in Madame’s apartment, he
is an unwelcome visitor who does not remain outside.”

“Your royal highness does not think, and does not speak so, of yourself?”

“On the contrary, it is on my own account that I do speak and think. I
have no reason, certainly, to flatter myself about the reception I meet
with here at any time. How is it that, on the very day there is music and
a little society in Madame’s apartments—in my own apartments,
indeed, for they are mine—on the very day that I wish to amuse
myself a little in my turn, every one runs away? Are they afraid to see
me, that they all take wing as soon as I appear? Is there anything wrong,
then, going on in my absence?”

“Yet nothing has been done to-day, monseigneur, which is not done every
day.”

“What! do they laugh like that every day?”

“Why, yes, monseigneur.”

“The same group of people simpering and the same singing and strumming
going on every day?”

“The guitar, monseigneur, was introduced to-day; but when we have no
guitars, we have violins and flutes; ladies soon weary without music.”

“The deuce!—and the men?”

“What men, monseigneur?”

“M. de Guiche, M. de Manicamp, and the rest of them?”

“They all belong to your highness’s household.”

“Yes, yes, you are right,” said the prince, as he returned to his own
apartments, full of thought. He threw himself into the largest of his
arm-chairs, without looking at himself in the glass. “Where can the
chevalier be?” said he. One of the prince’s attendants happened to be near
him, overheard his remark, and replied,—

“No one knows, your highness.”

“Still the same answer. The first one who answers me again, ‘I do not
know,’ I will discharge.” Every one at this remark hurried out of his
apartments, in the same manner as the others had fled from Madame’s
apartments. The prince then flew into the wildest rage. He kicked over a
chiffonier, which tumbled on the carpet, broken into pieces. He next went
into the galleries, and with the greatest coolness threw down, one after
another, an enameled vase, a porphyry ewer, and a bronze candelabrum. The
noise summoned every one to the various doors.

“What is your highness’s pleasure?” said the captain of the guards,
timidly.

“I am treating myself to some music,” replied the prince, gnashing his
teeth.

The captain of the guards desired his royal highness’s physician to be
sent for. But before he came, Malicorne arrived, saying to the prince,
“Monseigneur, the Chevalier de Lorraine is here.”

The duke looked at Malicorne, and smiled graciously at him, just as the
chevalier entered.

Chapter XXXI. M. de Lorraine’s Jealousy.

The Duc d’Orleans uttered a cry of delight on perceiving the Chevalier de
Lorraine. “This is fortunate, indeed,” he said; “by what happy chance do I
see you? Had you indeed disappeared, as every one assured me?”

“Yes, monseigneur.”

“A caprice?”

“I to venture upon caprices with your highness! The respect—”

“Put respect out of the way, for you fail in it every day. I absolve you;
but why did you leave me?”

“Because I felt that I was of no further use to you.”

“Explain yourself.”

“Your highness has people about you who are far more amusing that I
can ever be. I felt I was not strong enough to enter into contest with
them, and I therefore withdrew.”

“This extreme diffidence shows a want of common sense. Who are those with
whom you cannot contend? De Guiche?”

“I name no one.”

“This is absurd. Does De Guiche annoy you?”

“I do not say he does; do not force me to speak, however; you know very
well that De Guiche is one of our best friends.”

“Who is it, then?”

“Excuse me, monseigneur, let us say no more about it.” The chevalier knew
perfectly well that curiosity is excited in the same way as thirst —by
removing that which quenches it; or in other words, by denying an
explanation.

“No, no,” said the prince; “I wish to know why you went away.”

“In that case, monseigneur, I will tell you; but do not get angry. I
remarked that my presence was disagreeable.”

“To whom?”

“To Madame.”

“What do you mean?” said the duke in astonishment.

“It is simple enough; Madame is very probably jealous of the regard you
are good enough to testify for me.”

“Has she shown it to you?”

“Madame never addresses a syllable to me, particularly since a certain
time.”

“Since what time?”

“Since the time when, M. de Guiche having made himself more agreeable to
her than I could, she receives him at every and any hour.”

The duke colored. “At any hour, chevalier; what do you mean by that?”

“You see, your highness, I have already displeased you; I was quite sure I
should.”

“I am not displeased; but what you say is rather startling. In what
respect does Madame prefer De Guiche to you?”

“I shall say no more,” said the chevalier, saluting the prince
ceremoniously.

“On the contrary, I require you to speak. If you withdraw on that account,
you must indeed be very jealous.”

“One cannot help being jealous, monseigneur, when one loves. Is not your
royal highness jealous of Madame? Would you not, if you saw some one
always near Madame, and always treated with great favor, take umbrage at
it? One’s friends are as one’s lovers. Your highness has sometimes
conferred the distinguished honor upon me of calling me your friend.”

“Yes, yes,; but you used a phrase which has a very equivocal significance;
you are unfortunate in your phrases.”

“What phrase, monseigneur?”

“You said, ‘treated with great favor.’ What do you mean by favor?”

“Nothing can be more simple,” said the chevalier, with an expression of
great frankness; “for instance, whenever a husband remarks that his wife
summons such and such a man near her; whenever this man is always to be
found by her side, or in attendance at the door of her carriage; whenever
the bouquet of the one is always the same color as the ribbons of the
other; when music and supper parties are held in private apartments;
whenever a dead silence takes place immediately the husband makes his
appearance in his wife’s rooms; and when the husband suddenly finds that
he has, as a companion, the most devoted and the kindest of men, who, a
week before, was with him as little as possible; why, then—”

“Well, finish.”

“Why, then, I say, monseigneur, one possibly may get jealous. But all
these details hardly apply; for our conversation had nothing to do with
them.”

The duke was evidently very much agitated, and seemed to struggle with
himself a good deal. “You have not told me,” he then remarked, “why you
absented yourself. A little while ago you said it was from a fear of
intruding; you added, even, that you had observed a disposition on
Madame’s part to encourage De Guiche.”

“Pardon me, monseigneur, I did not say that.”

“You did, indeed.”

“Well, if I did say so, I observed nothing but what was very inoffensive.”

“At all events, you remarked something.”

“You embarrass me, monseigneur.”

“What does that matter? Answer me. If you speak the truth, why should you
feel embarrassed?”

“I always speak the truth, monseigneur; but I also always hesitate when it
is a question of repeating what others say.”

“Ah! repeat? It appears that it is talked about, then?”

“I acknowledge that others have spoken to me on the subject.”

“Who?” said the prince.

The chevalier assumed almost an angry air, as he replied, “Monseigneur,
you are subjecting me to cross-examination; you treat me as a criminal at
the bar; the rumors which idly pass by a gentleman’s ears do not remain
there. Your highness wishes me to magnify rumors until it attains the
importance of an event.”

“However,” said the duke, in great displeasure, “the fact remains that you
withdrew on account of this report.”

“To speak the truth, others have talked to me of the attentions of M. de
Guiche to Madame, nothing more; perfectly harmless, I repeat, and more
than that, allowable. But do not be unjust, monseigneur, and do not attach
any undue importance to it. It does not concern you.”

“M. de Guiche’s attentions to Madame do not concern me?”

“No, monseigneur; and what I say to you I would say to De Guiche himself,
so little do I think of the attentions he pays Madame. Nay, I would say it
even to Madame herself. Only you understand what I am afraid of—I am
afraid of being thought jealous of the favor shown, when I am only jealous
as far as friendship is concerned. I know your disposition; I know that
when you bestow your affections you become exclusively attached. You love
Madame—and who, indeed, would not love her? Follow me
attentively as I proceed:—Madame has noticed among your friends the
handsomest and most fascinating of them all; she will begin to influence
you on his behalf in such a way that you will neglect the others. Your
indifference would kill me; it is already bad enough to have to support
Madame’s indifference. I have, therefore, made up my mind to give way to
the favorite whose happiness I envy, even while I acknowledge my sincere
friendship and sincere admiration for him. Well, monseigneur, do you see
anything to object to in this reasoning? Is it not that of a man of honor?
Is my conduct that of a sincere friend? Answer me, at least, after having
so closely questioned me.”

The duke had seated himself, with his head buried in his hands. After a
silence long enough to enable the chevalier to judge the effect of this
oratorical display, the duke arose, saying, “Come, be candid.”

“Do not say anything against Madame, monseigneur, or I shall take my
leave. It is impossible you can be suspicious of Madame?”

“No, no, chevalier; I do not suspect Madame; but in fact, I observe—I
compare—”

“Buckingham was a madman, monseigneur.”

“A madman about whom, however, you opened my eyes thoroughly.”

“No, no,” said the chevalier, quickly; “it was not I who opened your eyes,
it was De Guiche. Do not confound us, I beg.” And he began to laugh in so
harsh a manner that it sounded like the hiss of a serpent.

“Yes, yes; I remember. You said a few words, but De Guiche showed the most
jealousy.”

“I should think so,” continued the chevalier, in the same tone. “He was
fighting for home and altar.”

“What did you say?” said the duke, haughtily, thoroughly roused by this
insidious jest.

“Am I not right? for does not M. de Guiche hold the chief post of honor in
your household?”

“Well,” replied the duke, somewhat calmed, “had this passion of Buckingham
been remarked?”

“Certainly.”

“Very well. Do people say that M. de Guiche’s is remarked as much?”

“Pardon me, monseigneur; you are again mistaken; no one says that M. de
Guiche entertains anything of the sort.”

“Very good.”

“You see, monseigneur, that it would have been better, a hundred times
better, to have left me in my retirement, than to have allowed you to
conjure up, by aid of any scruples I may have had, suspicions which Madame
will regard as crimes, and she would be in the right, too.”

“What would you do?”

“Act reasonably.”

“In what way?”

“I should not pay the slightest attention to the society of these new
Epicurean philosophers; and, in that way, the rumors will cease.”

“Well, I will see; I will think it over.”

“Oh, you have time enough; the danger is not great; and then, besides, it
is not a question of danger or of passion. It all arose from a fear I had
to see your friendship for me decrease. From the very moment you restore
it, with so kind an assurance of its existence, I have no longer any other
idea in my head.”

The duke shook his head as if he meant to say: “If you have no more ideas,
I have, though.” It being now the dinner hour, the prince sent to inform
Madame of it; but she returned a message to the effect that she could not
be present, but would dine in her own apartment.

“That is not my fault,” said the duke. “This morning, having taken them by
surprise in the midst of a musical party, I got jealous; and so they are
in the sulks with me.”

“We will dine alone,” said the chevalier, with a sigh; “I regret De Guiche
is not here.”

“Oh! De Guiche will not remain long in the sulks; he is a very
good-natured fellow.”

“Monseigneur,” said the chevalier, suddenly, “an excellent idea has struck
me, in our conversation just now. I may have exasperated your highness,
and caused you some dissatisfaction. It is but fitting that I should be
the mediator. I will go and look for the count, and bring him back with
me.”

“Ah! chevalier, you are really a very good-natured fellow.”

“You say that as if you were surprised.”

“Well, you are not so tender-hearted every day.”

“That may be; but confess that I know how to repair a wrong I may have
done.”

“I confess that.”

“Will your highness do me the favor to wait here a few minutes?”

“Willingly; be off, and I will try on my Fontainebleau costume.”

The chevalier left the room, called his different attendant with the
greatest care, as if he were giving them different orders. All went off in
various directions; but he retained his valet de chambre.
“Ascertain, and immediately, too, of M. de Guiche is not in Madame’s
apartments. How can one learn it?”

“Very easily, monsieur. I will ask Malicorne, who will find out from Mlle.
de Montalais. I may as well tell you, however, that the inquiry will be
useless; for all M. de Guiche’s attendants are gone, and he must have left
with them.”

“Ascertain, nevertheless.”

Ten minutes had hardly passed, when the valet returned. He beckoned his
master mysteriously towards the servants’ staircase, and showed him into a
small room with a window looking out upon the garden. “What is the
matter?” said the chevalier; “why so many precautions?”

“Look, monsieur,” said the valet, “look yonder, under the walnut-tree.”

“Ah?” said the chevalier. “I see Manicamp there. What is he waiting for?”

“You will see in a moment, monsieur, if you wait patiently. There, do you
see now?”

“I see one, two, four musicians with their instruments, and behind them,
urging them on, De Guiche himself. What is he doing there, though?”

“He is waiting until the little door of the staircase, belonging to the
ladies of honor, is opened; by that staircase he will ascend to Madame’s
apartments, where some new pieces of music are going to be performed
during dinner.”

“Hush, monseigneur; do not call out her name; whoever says Montalais says
Malicorne. If you quarrel with the one, you will be on bad terms with the
other.”

“Very well; I have seen nothing.”

“And I,” said the valet, pocketing the purse, “have received nothing.”

The chevalier, being now certain that Guiche had entered, returned to the
prince, whom he found splendidly dressed and radiant with joy, as with
good looks. “I am told,” he exclaimed, “that the king has taken the sun as
his device; really, monseigneur, it is you whom this device would best
suit.”

“Where is De Guiche?”

“He cannot be found. He has fled—has evaporated entirely. Your
scolding of this morning terrified him. He could not be found in his
apartments.”

“Bah! the hair-brained fellow is capable of setting off post-haste to his
own estates. Poor man! we will recall him. Come, let us dine now.”

“Monseigneur, to-day is a very festival of ideas; I have another.”

“What is it?”

“Madame is angry with you, and she has reason to be so. You owe her
revenge; go and dine with her.”

“Oh! that would be acting like a weak and whimsical husband.”

“It is the duty of a good husband to do so. The princess is no doubt
wearied enough; she will be weeping in her plate, and here eyes will get
quite red. A husband who is the cause of his wife’s eyes getting red is an
odious creature. Come, monseigneur, come.”

“I cannot; for I have directed dinner to be served here.”

“Yet see, monseigneur, how dull we shall be; I shall be low-spirited
because I know that Madame will be alone; you, hard and savage as you wish
to appear, will be sighing all the while. Take me with you to Madame’s
dinner, and that will be a delightful surprise. I am sure we shall be very
merry; you were in the wrong this morning.”

“Well, perhaps I was.”

“There is no perhaps at all, for it is a fact you were so.”

“Chevalier, chevalier, your advice is not good.”

“Nay, my advice is good; all the advantages are on your own side. Your
violet-colored suit, embroidered with gold, becomes you admirably. Madame
will be as much vanquished by the man as by the action. Come,
monseigneur.”

“You decide me; let us go.”

The duke left his room, accompanied by the chevalier and went towards
Madame’s apartments. The chevalier hastily whispered to the valet, “Be
sure there are some people before that little door, so that no one can
escape in that direction. Run, run!” And he followed the duke towards the
ante-chambers of Madame’s suite of apartments, and when the ushers were
about to announce them, the chevalier said, laughing, “His highness wishes
to surprise Madame.”

Chapter XXXII. Monsieur is Jealous of Guiche.

Monsieur entered the room abruptly, as persons do who mean well and think
they confer pleasure, or as those who hope to surprise some secret, the
terrible reward of jealous people. Madame, almost out of her senses with
joy at the first bars of music, was dancing in the most unrestrained
manner, leaving the dinner, which had been already begun, unfinished. Her
partner was M. de Guiche, who, with his arms raised, and his eyes half
closed, was kneeling on one knee, like the Spanish dancers, with looks
full of passion, and gestures of the most caressing character. The
princess was dancing round him with a responsive smile, and the same air
of alluring seductiveness. Montalais stood by admiringly; La Valliere,
seated in a corner of the room, looked on thoughtfully. It is impossible
to describe the effect which the presence of the prince produced upon this
gleeful company, and it would be equally impossible to describe the effect
which the sight of their happiness produced upon Philip. The Comte de
Guiche had no power to move; Madame remained in the middle of one of the
figures and of an attitude, unable to utter a word. The Chevalier de
Lorraine, leaning his back against the doorway, smiled like a man in the
very height of the frankest admiration. The pallor of the prince, and the
convulsive twitching of his hands and limbs, were the first symptoms that
struck those present. A dead silence succeeded the merry music of the
dance. The Chevalier de Lorraine took advantage of this interval to salute
Madame and De Guiche most respectfully, affecting to join them together in
his reverences as though they were the master and mistress of the house.
Monsieur then approached them, saying, in a hoarse tone of voice, “I am
delighted; I came here expecting to find you ill and low-spirited, and I
find you abandoning yourself to new amusements; really, it is most
fortunate. My house is the pleasantest in the kingdom.” Then turning
towards De Guiche, “Comte,” he said, “I did not know you were so good a
dancer.” And, again addressing his wife, he said, “Show a little more
consideration for me, Madame; whenever you intend to amuse yourselves
here, invite me. I am a prince, unfortunately, very much neglected.”

Guiche had now recovered his self-possession, and with the spirited
boldness which was natural to him, and sat so well upon him, he said,
“Your highness knows very well that my very life is at your service, and
whenever there is a question of its being needed, I am ready; but to-day,
as it is only a question of dancing to music, I dance.”

“And you are perfectly right,” said the prince, coldly. “But, Madame,” he
continued, “you do not remark that your ladies deprive me of my friends;
M. de Guiche does not belong to you, Madame, but to me. If you wish to
dine without me you have your ladies. When I dine alone I have my
gentlemen; do not strip me of everything.”

Madame felt the reproach and the lesson, and the color rushed to her face.
“Monsieur,” she replied, “I was not aware, when I came to the court of
France, that princesses of my rank were to be regarded as the women in
Turkey are. I was not aware that we were not allowed to be seen; but,
since such is your desire, I will conform myself to it; pray do not
hesitate, if you should wish it, to have my windows barred, even.”

This repartee, which made Montalais and De Guiche smile, rekindled the
prince’s anger, no inconsiderable portion of which had already evaporated
in words.

“Very well,” he said, in a concentrated tone of voice, “this is the way in
which I am respected in my own house.”

“Monseigneur, monseigneur,” murmured the chevalier in the duke’s ear, in
such a manner that every one could observe he was endeavoring to calm him.

“Come,” replied the prince, as his only answer to the remark, hurrying him
away, and turning round with so hasty a movement that he almost ran
against Madame. The chevalier followed him to his own apartment, where the
prince had no sooner seated himself than he gave free vent to his fury.
The chevalier raised his eyes towards the ceiling, joined his hands
together, and said not a word.

“Give me your opinion,” exclaimed the prince.

“Upon what?”

“Upon what is taking place here.”

“Oh, monseigneur, it is a very serious matter.”

“It is abominable! I cannot live in this manner.”

“How miserable all this is,” said the chevalier. “We hoped to enjoy
tranquillity after that madman Buckingham had left.”

“And this is worse.”

“I do not say that, monseigneur.”

“Yes, but I say it; for Buckingham would never have ventured upon a fourth
part of what we have just now seen.”

“What do you mean?”

“To conceal oneself for the purposes of dancing, and to feign
indisposition in order to dine tete-a-tete.”

“No, no, monseigneur.”

“Yes, yes,” exclaimed the prince, exciting himself like a self-willed
child; “but I will not endure it any longer, I must learn what is really
going on.”

“Oh, monseigneur, an exposure—”

“By Heaven, monsieur, shall I put myself out of the way, when
people show so little consideration for me? Wait for me here, chevalier,
wait for me here.” The prince disappeared in the neighboring apartment and
inquired of the gentleman in attendance if the queen-mother had returned
from chapel.

Anne of Austria felt that her happiness was now complete; peace restored
to her family, a nation delighted with the presence of a young monarch who
had shown an aptitude for affairs of great importance; the revenues of the
state increased; external peace assured; everything seemed to promise a
tranquil future. Her thoughts recurred, now and then, to the poor young
nobleman whom she had received as a mother, and had driven away as a
hard-hearted step-mother, and she sighed as she thought of him.

Suddenly the Duc d’Orleans entered her room. “Dear mother,” he exclaimed
hurriedly, closing the door, “things cannot go on as they are now.”

Anne of Austria raised her beautiful eyes towards him, and with an unmoved
suavity of manner, said, “What do you allude to?”

“I wish to speak of Madame.”

“Your wife?”

“Yes, madame.”

“I suppose that silly fellow Buckingham has been writing a farewell letter
to her.”

“Oh! yes, madame; of course, it is a question of Buckingham.”

“Of whom else could it be, then? for that poor fellow was, wrongly enough,
the object of your jealousy, and I thought—”

“My wife, madame, has already replaced the Duke of Buckingham.”

“Philip, what are you saying? You are speaking very heedlessly.”

“No, no. Madame has so managed matters, that I am still jealous.”

“Of whom, in Heaven’s name?”

“Is it possible you have not remarked it? Have you not noticed that M. de
Guiche is always in her apartments—always with her?”

The queen clapped her hands together, and began to laugh. “Philip,” she
said, “your jealousy is not merely a defect, it is a disease.”

“Whether a defect or a disease, madame, I am the sufferer from it.”

“And do you imagine that a complaint which exists only in your own
imagination can be cured? You wish it to be said you are right in being
jealous, when there is no ground whatever for your jealousy.”

“Of course, you will begin to say for this gentleman what you already said
on the behalf of the other.”

“Because, Philip,” said the queen dryly, “what you did for the other, you
are going to do for this one.”

The prince bowed, slightly annoyed. “If I give you facts,” he said, “will
you believe me?”

“If it regarded anything else but jealousy, I would believe you without
your bringing facts forward; but as jealousy is the case, I promise
nothing.”

“It is just the same as if your majesty were to desire me to hold my
tongue, and sent me away unheard.”

“Far from it; you are my son, I owe you a mother’s indulgence.”

“Oh, say what you think; you owe me as much indulgence as a madman
deserves.”

“Do not exaggerate, Philip, and take care how you represent your wife to
me as a woman of depraved mind—”

“But facts, mother, facts!”

“Well, I am listening.”

“This morning at ten o’clock they were playing music in Madame’s
apartments.”

“No harm in that, surely.”

“M. de Guiche was talking with her alone—Ah! I forgot to tell you,
that, during the last ten days, he has never left her side.”

“If they were doing any harm they would hide themselves.”

“Very good,” exclaimed the duke, “I expected you to say that. Pray
remember with precision the words you have just uttered. This morning I
took them by surprise, and showed my dissatisfaction in a very marked
manner.”

“Rely upon it, that is quite sufficient; it was, perhaps, even a little
too much. These young women easily take offense. To reproach them for an
error they have not committed is, sometimes, almost equivalent to telling
them they might be guilty of even worse.”

“Very good, very good; but wait a minute. Do not forget what you have just
this moment said, that this morning’s lesson ought to have been
sufficient, and that if they had been doing what was wrong, they would
have hidden themselves.”

“Yes, I said so.”

“Well, just now, repenting of my hastiness of the morning, and imagining
that Guiche was sulking in his own apartments, I went to pay Madame a
visit. Can you guess what, or whom, I found there? Another set of
musicians; more dancing, and Guiche himself—he was concealed there.”

Anne of Austria frowned. “It was imprudent,” she said. “What did Madame
say?”

“Nothing.”

“And Guiche?”

“As much—oh, no! he muttered some impertinent remark or another.”

“Well, what is your opinion, Philip?”

“That I have been made a fool of; that Buckingham was only a pretext, and
that Guiche is the one who is really to blame in the matter.”

Anne shrugged her shoulders. “Well,” she said, “what else?”

“I wish De Guiche to be dismissed from my household, as Buckingham was,
and I shall ask the king, unless—”

“Unless what?”

“Unless you, my dear mother, who are so clever and so kind, will execute
the commission yourself.”

“I will not do it, Philip.”

“What, madame?”

“Listen, Philip; I am not disposed to pay people ill compliments every
day; I have some influence over young people, but I cannot take advantage
of it without running the chances of losing it altogether. Besides, there
is nothing to prove that M. de Guiche is guilty.”

“He has displeased me.”

“That is your own affair.”

“Very well, I know what I shall do,” said the prince, impetuously.

Anne looked at him with some uneasiness. “What do you intend to do?” she
said.

“I will have him drowned in my fish-pond the very next time I find him in
my apartments again.” Having launched this terrible threat, the prince
expected his mother would be frightened out of her senses; but the queen
was unmoved.

“Do so,” she said.

Philip was as weak as a woman, and began to cry out, “Every one betrays
me,—no one cares for me; my mother, even, joins my enemies.”

“Your mother, Philip, sees further in the matter than you do, and does not
care about advising you, since you will not listen to her.”

“I will go to the king.”

“I was about to propose that to you. I am now expecting his majesty; it is
the hour he usually pays me a visit; explain the matter to him yourself.”

She had hardly finished when Philip heard the door of the ante-room open
with some noise. He began to feel nervous. At the sound of the king’s
footsteps, which could be heard upon the carpet, the duke hurriedly made
his escape. Anne of Austria could not resist laughing, and was laughing
still when the king entered. He came very affectionately to inquire after
the even now uncertain health of the queen-mother, and to announce to her
that the preparations for the journey to Fontainebleau were complete.
Seeing her laugh, his uneasiness on her account diminished, and he
addressed her in a vivacious tone himself. Anne of Austria took him by the
hand, and, in a voice full of playfulness, said, “Do you know, sire that I
am proud of being a Spanish woman?”

“Why, madame?”

“Because Spanish women are worth more than English women at least.”

“Explain yourself.”

“Since your marriage you have not, I believe, had a single reproach to
make against the queen.”

“Certainly not.”

“And you, too, have been married some time. Your brother, on the contrary,
has been married but a fortnight.”

“Well?”

“He is now finding fault with Madame a second time.”

“What, Buckingham still?”

“No, another.”

“Who?”

“Guiche.”

“Really? Madame is a coquette, then?”

“I fear so.”

“My poor brother,” said the king, laughing.

“You don’t object to coquettes, it seems?”

“In Madame, certainly I do; but Madame is not a coquette at heart.”

“That may be, but your brother is excessively angry about it.”

“What does he want?”

“He wants to drown Guiche.”

“That is a violent measure to resort to.”

“Do not laugh; he is extremely irritated. Think of what can be done.”

“To save Guiche—certainly.”

“Of, if your brother heard you, he would conspire against you as your
uncle did against your father.”

“No; Philip has too much affection for me for that, and I, on my side,
have too great a regard for him; we shall live together on very good
terms. But what is the substance of his request?”

“That you will prevent Madame from being a coquette and Guiche from being
amiable.”

“Is that all? My brother has an exalted idea of sovereign power. To reform
a man, not to speak about reforming a woman!”

“How will you set about it?”

“With a word to Guiche, who is a clever fellow, I will undertake to
convince him.”

“But Madame?”

“That is more difficult; a word will not be enough. I will compose a
homily and read it to her.”

“There is no time to be lost.”

“Oh, I will use the utmost diligence. There is a repetition of the ballet
this afternoon.”

“You will read her a lecture while you are dancing?”

“Yes, madame.”

“You promise to convert her?”

“I will root out the heresy altogether, either by convincing her, or by
extreme measures.”

“That is all right, then. Do not mix me up in the affair; Madame would
never forgive me all her life, and as a mother-in-law, I ought to desire
to live on good terms with my new-found daughter.”

“The king, madame, will take all upon himself. But let me reflect.”

“What about?”

“It would be better, perhaps, if I were to go and see Madame in her own
apartment.”

“Would that not seem a somewhat serious step to take?”

“Yes; but seriousness is not unbecoming in preachers, and the music of the
ballet would drown half my arguments. Besides, the object is to prevent
any violent measures on my brother’s part, so that a little precipitation
may be advisable. Is Madame in her own apartment?”

“I believe so.”

“What is my statement of grievances to consist of?”

“In a few words, of the following: music uninterruptedly; Guiche’s
assiduity; suspicions of treasonable plots and practices.”

“And the proofs?”

“There are none.”

“Very well; I will go at once to see Madame.” The king turned to look in
the mirrors at his costume, which was very rich, and his face, which was
radiant as the morning. “I suppose my brother is kept a little at a
distance,” said the king.

“Fire and water cannot be more opposite.”

“That will do. Permit me, madame, to kiss your hands, the most beautiful
hands in France.”

“May you be successful, sire, as the family peacemaker.”

“I do not employ an ambassador,” said Louis, “which is as much as to say
that I shall succeed.” He laughed as he left the room, and carelessly
adjusted his ruffles as he went along.

Chapter XXXIII. The Mediator.

When the king made his appearance in Madame’s apartments, the courtiers,
whom the news of a conjugal misunderstanding had dispersed through the
various apartments, began to entertain the most serious apprehensions. A
storm was brewing in that direction, the elements of which the Chevalier
de Lorraine, in the midst of the different groups, was analyzing with
delight, contributing to the weaker, and acting, according to his own
wicked designs, in such a manner with regard to the stronger, as to
produce the most disastrous consequences possible. As Anne of Austria had
herself said, the presence of the king gave a solemn and serious character
to the event. Indeed, in the year 1662, the dissatisfaction of Monsieur
with Madame, and the king’s intervention in the private affairs of
Monsieur, was a matter of no inconsiderable moment. 3

The boldest, even, who had been the associates of the Comte de Guiche,
had, from the first moment, held aloof from him, with a sort of nervous
apprehension; and the comte himself, infected by the general panic,
retired to his own room. The king entered Madame’s private apartments,
acknowledging and returning the salutations, as he was always in the habit
of doing. The ladies of honor were ranged in a line on his passage along
the gallery. Although his majesty was very much preoccupied, he gave the
glance of a master at the two rows of young and beautiful girls, who
modestly cast down their eyes, blushing as they felt the king’s gaze fall
upon them. One only of the number, whose long hair fell in silken masses
upon the most beautiful skin imaginable, was pale, and could hardly
sustain herself, notwithstanding the knocks which her companion gave her
with her elbow. It was La Valliere whom Montalais supported in that manner
by whispering some of that courage to her with which she herself was so
abundantly provided. The king could not resist turning round to look at
them again. Their faces, which had already been raised, were again
lowered, but the only fair head among them remained motionless, as if all
the strength and intelligence she had left had abandoned her. When he
entered Madame’s room, Louis found his sister-in-law reclining upon the
cushions of her cabinet. She rose and made a profound reverence, murmuring
some words of thanks for the honor she was receiving. She then resumed her
seat, overcome by a sudden weakness, which was no doubt assumed, for a
delightful color animated her cheeks, and her eyes, still red from the
tears she had recently shed, never had more fire in them. When the king
was seated, as soon as he had remarked, with that accuracy of observation
which characterized him, the disorder of the apartment, and the no less
great disorder of Madame’s countenance, he assumed a playful manner,
saying, “My dear sister, at what hour to-day would you wish the repetition
of the ballet to take place?”

Madame, shaking her charming head, slowly and languishingly said: “Ah!
sire, will you graciously excuse my appearance at the repetition? I was
about to send to inform you that I could not attend to-day.”

“Indeed,” said the king, in apparent surprise; “are you not well?”

“No, sire.”

“I will summon your medical attendants, then.”

“No, for they can do nothing for my indisposition.”

“You alarm me.”

“Sire, I wish to ask your majesty’s permission to return to England.”

The king started. “Return to England,” he said; “do you really say what
you mean?”

“I say it reluctantly, sire,” replied the grand-daughter of Henry IV.,
firmly, her beautiful black eyes flashing. “I regret to have to confide
such matters to your majesty, but I feel myself too unhappy at your
majesty’s court; and I wish to return to my own family.”

“Madame, madame,” exclaimed the king, as he approached her.

“Listen to me, sire,” continued the young woman, acquiring by degrees that
ascendency over her interrogator which her beauty and her nervous nature
conferred; “young as I am, I have already suffered humiliation, and have
endured disdain here. Oh! do not contradict me, sire,” she said, with a
smile. The king colored.

“Then,” she continued, “I had reasoned myself into the belief that Heaven
called me into existence with that object—I, the daughter of a
powerful monarch; that since my father had been deprived of life, Heaven
could well smite my pride. I have suffered greatly; I have been the cause,
too, of my mother suffering much; but I vowed that if Providence ever
placed me in a position of independence, even were it that of a workman of
the lower classes, who gains her bread by her labor, I would never suffer
humiliation again. That day has now arrived; I have been restored to the
fortune due to my rank and to my birth; I have even ascended again the
steps of a throne, and I thought that, in allying myself with a French
prince, I should find in him a relation, a friend, an equal; but I
perceive I have found only a master, and I rebel. My mother shall know
nothing of it; you whom I respect, and whom I—love—”

The king started; never had any voice so gratified his ear.

“You, sire, who know all, since you have come here; you will, perhaps,
understand me. If you had not come, I should have gone to you. I wish for
permission to go away. I leave it to your delicacy of feeling to exculpate
and to protect me.”

“My dear sister,” murmured the king, overpowered by this bold attack,
“have you reflected upon the enormous difficulty of the project you have
conceived?”

“Sire, I do not reflect, I feel. Attacked, I instinctively repel the
attack, nothing more.”

“Come, tell me, what have they done to you?” said the king.

The princess, it will have been seen, by this peculiarly feminine
maneuver, had escaped every reproach, and advanced on her side a far more
serious one; from the accused she became the accuser. It is an infallible
sign of guilt; but notwithstanding that, all women, even the least clever
of the sex, invariably know how to derive some such means of turning the
tables. The king had forgotten that he was paying her a visit in order to
say to her, “What have you done to my brother?” and he was reduced to
weakly asking her, “What have they done to you?”

“What have they done to me?” replied Madame. “One must be a woman to
understand it, sire—they have made me shed tears;” and, with one of
her fingers, whose slenderness and perfect whiteness were unequaled, she
pointed to her brilliant eyes swimming with unshed drops, and again began
to weep.

“I implore you, my dear sister!” said the king, advancing to take her warm
and throbbing hand, which she abandoned to him.

“In the first place, sire, I was deprived of the presence of my brother’s
friend. The Duke of Buckingham was an agreeable, cheerful visitor; my own
countryman, who knew my habits; I will say almost a companion, so
accustomed had we been to pass our days together, with our other friends,
upon the beautiful piece of water at St. James’s.”

“But Villiers was in love with you.”

“A pretext! What does it matter,” she said, seriously, “whether the duke
was in love with me or not? Is a man in love so very dangerous for me? Ah!
sire, it is not sufficient for a man to love a woman.” And she smiled so
tenderly, and with so much archness, that the king felt his heart swell
and throb in his breast.

“At all events, if my brother were jealous?” interrupted the king.

“Very well, I admit that is a reason; and the duke was sent away
accordingly.”

“No, not sent away.”

“Driven away, dismissed, expelled, then, if you prefer it, sire. One of
the first gentlemen of Europe obliged to leave the court of the King of
France, of Louis XIV., like a beggar, on account of a glance or a bouquet.
It was little worthy of a most gallant court; but forgive me, sire; I
forgot, that, in speaking thus, I am attacking your sovereign power.”

“I assure you, my dear sister, it was not I who dismissed the Duke of
Buckingham; I was charmed with him.”

“It was not you?” said Madame; “ah! so much the better;” and she
emphasized the “so much the better,” as if she had instead said, “so much
the worse.”

A few minutes’ silence ensued. She then resumed: “The Duke of Buckingham
having left—I now know why and by whose means—I thought I
should have recovered my tranquillity; but not at all, for all at once
Monsieur found another pretext; all at once—”

“All at once,” said the king, playfully, “some one else presents himself.
It is but natural; you are beautiful, and will always meet with men who
will madly love you.”

“In that case,” exclaimed the princess, “I will create a solitude around
me, which indeed seems to be what is wished, and what is being prepared
for me. But no, I prefer to return to London. There I am known and
appreciated. I shall have friends, without fearing they may be regarded as
my lovers. Shame! it is a disgraceful suspicion, and unworthy a gentleman.
Monsieur has lost everything in my estimation, since he has shown me he
can be a tyrant to a woman.”

“Nay, nay, my brother’s only fault is that of loving you.”

“Love me! Monsieur love me! Ah! sire,” and she burst out laughing.
“Monsieur will never love any woman,” she said; “Monsieur loves himself
too much; no, unhappily for me, Monsieur’s jealousy is of the worst kind—he
is jealous without love.”

“Confess, however,” said the king, who began to be excited by this varied
and animated conversation; “confess that Guiche loves you.”

“Ah! sire, I know nothing about that.”

“You must have perceived it. A man who loves readily betrays himself.”

“M. de Guiche has not betrayed himself.”

“My dear sister, you are defending M. de Guiche.”

“I, indeed! Ah, sire, I only needed a suspicion from yourself to crown my
wretchedness.”

“No, madame, no,” returned the king, hurriedly; “do not distress yourself.
Nay, you are weeping. I implore you to calm yourself.”

She wept, however, and large tears fell upon her hands; the king took one
of her hands in his, and kissed the tears away. She looked at him so sadly
and with so much tenderness that he felt his heart giving way under her
gaze.

“You have no kind of feeling, then, for Guiche?” he said, more disturbed
than became his character of mediator.

“None—absolutely none.”

“Then I can reassure my brother in that respect?”

“Nothing will satisfy him, sire. Do not believe he is jealous. Monsieur
has been badly advised by some one, and he is of nervous disposition.”

“He may well be so when you are concerned,” said the king.

Madame cast down her eyes, and was silent; the king did so likewise, still
holding her hand all the while. Their momentary silence seemed to last an
age. Madame gently withdrew her hand, and from that moment, she felt her
triumph was certain, and that the field of battle was her own.

“Monsieur complains,” said the king, “that you prefer the society of
private individuals to his own conversation and society.”

“But Monsieur passes his life in looking at his face in the glass, and in
plotting all sorts of spiteful things against women with the Chevalier de
Lorraine.”

“Oh, you are going somewhat too far.”

“I only tell you what is true. Do you observe for yourself, sire, and you
will see that I am right.”

“I will observe; but, in the meantime, what satisfaction can I give my
brother?”

“My departure.”

“You repeat that word,” exclaimed the king, imprudently, as if, during the
last ten minutes, such a change had been produced that Madame would have
had all her ideas on the subject thoroughly changed.

“Sire, I cannot be happy here any longer,” she said. “M. de Guiche annoys
Monsieur. Will he be sent away, too?”

“If it be necessary, why not?” replied the king, smiling.

“Well; and after M. de Guiche—whom, by the by, I shall regret—I
warn you, sire.”

“Ah, you will regret him?”

“Certainly; he is amiable, he has a great friendship for me, and he amuses
me.”

“If Monsieur were only to hear you,” said the king, slightly annoyed, “do
you know I would not undertake to make it up again between you; nay, I
would not even attempt it.”

“Sire, can you, even now, prevent Monsieur from being jealous of the first
person who may approach? I know very well that M. de Guiche is not the
first.”

“Again I warn you that as a good brother I shall take a dislike to De
Guiche.”

“Ah, sire, do not, I entreat you, adopt either the sympathies or the
dislikes of Monsieur. Remain king; better for yourself and for every one
else.”

“You jest charmingly, madame; and I can well understand how the people you
attack must adore you.”

“And is that the reason why you, sire, whom I had regarded as my defender,
are about to join these who persecute me?” said Madame.

“I your persecutor! Heaven forbid!”

“Then,” she continued, languishingly, “grant me a favor.”

“Whatever you wish.”

“Let me return to England.”

“Never, never!” exclaimed Louis XIV.

“I am a prisoner, then?”

“In France—if France is a prison—yes.”

“What must I do, then?”

“I will tell you. Instead of devoting yourself to friendships which are
somewhat unstable, instead of alarming us by your retirement, remain
always in our society, do not leave us, let us live as a united family. M.
de Guiche is certainly very amiable; but if, at least, we do not possess
his wit—”

“Ah, sire, you know very well you are pretending to be modest.”

“No, I swear to you. One may be a king, and yet feel that he possesses
fewer chances of pleasing than many other gentlemen.”

“I am sure, sire, that you do not believe a single word you are saying.”

The king looked at Madame tenderly, and said, “Will you promise me one
thing?”

“What is it?”

“That you will no longer waste upon strangers, in your own apartments, the
time which you owe us. Shall we make an offensive and defensive alliance
against the common enemy?”

“An alliance with you, sire?”

“Why not? Are you not a sovereign power?”

“But are you, sire, a reliable ally?”

“You shall see, madame.”

“And when shall this alliance commence?”

“This very day.”

“I will draw up the treaty, and you shall sign it.”

“Blindly.”

“Then, sire, I promise you wonders; you are the star of the court, and
when you make your appearance, everything will be resplendent.”

“Oh, madame, madame,” said Louis XIV., “you know well that there is no
brilliancy that does not proceed from yourself, and that if I assume the
sun as my device, it is only an emblem.”

“Sire, you flatter your ally, and you wish to deceive her,” said Madame,
threatening the king with her finger menacingly raised.

“What! you believe I am deceiving you, when I assure you of my affection?”

“Yes.”

“What makes you so suspicious?”

“One thing.”

“What is it? I shall indeed be unhappy if I do not overcome it.”

“That one thing in question, sire, is not in your power, not even in the
power of Heaven.”

“Tell me what it is.”

“The past.”

“I do not understand, madame,” said the king, precisely because he had
understood her but too well.

The princess took his hand in hers. “Sire,” she said, “I have had the
misfortune to displease you for so long a period, that I have almost the
right to ask myself to-day why you were able to accept me as a
sister-in-law.”

“Displease me! You have displeased me?”

“Nay, do not deny it, for I remember it well.”

“Our alliance shall date from to-day,” exclaimed the king, with a warmth
that was not assumed. “You will not think any more of the past, will you?
I myself am resolved that I will not. I shall always remember the present;
I have it before my eyes; look.” And he led the princess before a mirror,
in which she saw herself reflected, blushing and beautiful enough to
overcome a saint.

“It is all the same,” she murmured; “it will not be a very worthy
alliance.”

“Must I swear?” inquired the king, intoxicated by the voluptuous turn the
whole conversation had taken.

“Oh, I will not refuse to witness a resounding oath,” said Madame; “it has
always the semblance of security.”

The king knelt upon a footstool and took Madame’s hand. She, with a smile
that no painter could ever succeed in depicting, and which a poet might
only imagine, gave him both her hands, in which he hid his burning face.
Neither of them could utter a syllable. The king felt Madame withdraw her
hands, caressing his face while she did so. He rose immediately and left
the apartment. The courtiers remarked his heightened color, and concluded
that the scene had been a stormy one. The Chevalier de Lorraine, however,
hastened to say, “Nay, be comforted, gentlemen, his majesty is always pale
when he is angry.”

Chapter XXXIV. The Advisers.

The king left Madame in a state of agitation it would have been difficult
even for himself to have explained. It is impossible, in fact, to depict
the secret play of those strange sympathies which, suddenly and apparently
without any cause, are excited, after many years passed in the greatest
calmness and indifference, by two hearts destined to love each other. Why
had Louis formerly disdained, almost hated, Madame? Why did he now find
the same woman so beautiful, so captivating? And why, not only were his
thoughts occupied about her, but still more, why were they so continuously
occupied about her? Why, in fact, had Madame, whose eyes and mind were
sought for in another direction, shown during the last week towards the
king a semblance of favor which encouraged the belief of still greater
regard. It must not be supposed that Louis proposed to himself any plan of
seduction; the tie which united Madame to his brother was, or at least,
seemed to him, an insuperable barrier; he was even too far removed from
that barrier to perceive its existence. But on the downward path of those
passions in which the heart rejoices, towards which youth impels us, no
one can decide where to stop, not even the man who has in advance
calculated all the chances of his own success or another’s submission. As
far as Madame was concerned, her regard for the king may easily be
explained: she was young, a coquette, and ardently fond of admiration.
Hers was one of those buoyant, impetuous natures, which upon a theatre
would leap over the greatest obstacles to obtain an acknowledgement of
applause from the spectators. It was not surprising, then, that, after
having been adored by Buckingham, by De Guiche, who was superior to
Buckingham, even if it were only from that negative merit, so much
appreciated by women, that is to say, novelty—it was not surprising,
we say, that the princess should raise her ambition to being admired by
the king, who not only was the first person in the kingdom, but was one of
the handsomest and cleverest men in Europe. As for the sudden passion with
which Louis was inspired for his sister-in-law, physiology would perhaps
supply an explanation by some hackneyed commonplace reasons, and nature by
means of her mysterious affinity of characters. Madame had the most
beautiful black eyes in the world; Louis, eyes as beautiful, but blue.
Madame was laughter-loving and unreserved in her manners; Louis,
melancholy and diffident. Summoned to meet each other for the first time
upon the grounds of interest and common curiosity, these two opposite
natures were mutually influenced by the mingling of their reciprocal
contradictions of character. Louis, when he returned to his own rooms,
acknowledged to himself that Madame was the most attractive woman of his
court. Madame, left alone, delightedly thought that she had made a great
impression on the king. This feeling with her must remain passive, whilst
the king could not but act with all the natural vehemence of the heated
fancies of a young man, and of a young man who has but to express a wish
to see his wish fulfilled.

The first thing the king did was to announce to Monsieur that everything
was quietly arranged; that Madame had the greatest respect, the sincerest
affection for him; but that she was of a proud, impetuous character, and
that her susceptibilities were so acute as to require very careful
management.

Monsieur replied in the reticent tone of voice he generally adopted with
his brother, that he could not very well understand the susceptibilities
of a woman whose conduct might, in his opinion, expose her to censorious
remarks, and that if any one had a right to feel wounded, it was he,
Monsieur himself. To this the king replied in a quick tone of voice, which
showed the interest he took in his sister-in-law, “Thank Heaven, Madame is
above censure.”

“The censure of others, certainly, I admit,” said Monsieur; “but not above
mine, I presume.”

“Well,” said the king, “all I have to say, Philip, is that Madame’s
conduct does not deserve your censure. She certainly is heedless and
singular, but professes the best feelings. The English character is not
always well understood in France, and the liberty of English manners
sometimes surprises those who do not know the extent to which this liberty
is enriched by innocence.”

“Ah!” said Monsieur, more and more piqued, “from the very moment that your
majesty absolves my wife, whom I accuse, my wife is not guilty, and I have
nothing more to say.”

“Philip,” replied the king hastily, for he felt the voice of conscience
murmuring softly in his heart, that Monsieur was not altogether wrong,
“what I have done, and what I have said, has been only for your happiness.
I was told that you complained of a want of confidence and attention on
Madame’s part, and I did not wish your uneasiness to be prolonged. It is
part of my duty to watch over your household, as over that of the humblest
of my subjects. I have satisfied myself, therefore, with the sincerest
pleasure, that your apprehensions have no foundation.”

“And,” continued Monsieur, in an interrogative tone of voice, and fixing
his eyes upon his brother, “what your majesty has discovered for Madame
—and I bow myself to your superior judgment—have you verified
for those who have been the cause of the scandal of which I complain?”

“You are right, Philip,” said the king; “I will reserve that point for
future consideration.”

These words comprised an order as well as a consolation; the prince felt
it to be so, and withdrew.

As for Louis, he went to seek his mother, for he felt that he had need of
a more complete absolution than that he had just received from his
brother. Anne of Austria did not entertain for M. de Guiche the same
reasons for indulgence she had had for Buckingham. She perceived, at the
very first words he pronounced, that Louis was not disposed to be severe.

To appear in a contradictory humor was one of the stratagems of the good
queen, in order to succeed in ascertaining the truth. But Louis was no
longer in his apprenticeship; already for more than a year past he had
been king, and during that year he had learned how to dissemble. Listening
to Anne of Austria, in order to permit her to disclose her own thoughts,
testifying his approval only by look and gesture, he became convinced,
from certain piercing glances, and from certain skillful insinuations,
that the queen, so clear-sighted in matters of gallantry, had, if not
guessed, at least suspected, his weakness for Madame. Of all his
auxiliaries, Anne of Austria would be the most important to secure; of all
his enemies, Anne of Austria would prove most dangerous. Louis, therefore,
changed his maneuvers. He complained of Madame, absolved Monsieur,
listened to what his mother had to say of De Guiche, as he had previously
listened to what she had to say of Buckingham, and then, when he saw that
she thought she had gained a complete victory over him, he left her.

The whole of the court, that is to say, all the favorites and more
intimate associates, and they were numerous, since there were already five
masters, were assembled in the evening for the repetition of the ballet.
This interval had been occupied by poor De Guiche in receiving visits;
among the number was one which he hoped and feared nearly to an equal
extent. It was that of the Chevalier de Lorraine. About three o’clock in
the afternoon the chevalier entered De Guiche’s rooms. His looks were of
the most reassuring character. “Monsieur,” said he to De Guiche, “was in
an excellent humor, and no none could say that the slightest cloud had
passed across the conjugal sky. Besides, Monsieur was not one to bear
ill-feeling.”

For a long time past, during his residence at the court, the Chevalier de
Lorraine had decided, that of Louis XIII.‘s two sons, Monsieur was the one
who had inherited the father’s character—an uncertain, irresolute
character; impulsively good, indifferently disposed at bottom; but
certainly a cipher for his friends. He especially cheered De Guiche, by
pointing out to him that Madame would, before long, succeed in governing
her husband, and that, consequently, that man would govern Monsieur who
should succeed in influencing Madame.

To this, De Guiche full of mistrust and presence of mind, replied, “Yes,
chevalier; but I believe Madame to be a very dangerous person.”

“In what respect?”

“She has perceived that Monsieur is not very passionately inclined towards
women.”

“Quite true,” said the Chevalier de Lorraine, laughing.

“In that case, Madame will choose the first one who approaches, in order
to make him the object of her preference, and to bring back her husband by
jealousy.”

“Deep! deep!” exclaimed the chevalier.

“But true,” replied De Guiche.

Neither the one nor the other expressed his real thought. De Guiche, at
the very moment he thus attacked Madame’s character, mentally asked her
forgiveness from the bottom of his heart. The chevalier, while admiring De
Guiche’s penetration, was leading him, blindfolded, to the brink of the
precipice. De Guiche then questioned him more directly upon the effect
produced by the scene of the morning, and upon the still more serious
effect produced by the scene at dinner.

“But I have already told you they are all laughing at it,” replied the
Chevalier de Lorraine, “and Monsieur himself at the head of them.”

“Yet,” hazarded De Guiche, “I have heard that the king paid Madame a
visit.”

“Yes, precisely so. Madame was the only one who did not laugh, and the
king went to her in order to make her laugh, too.”

“So that—”

“So that nothing is altered in the arrangements of the day,” said the
chevalier.

“And is there a repetition of the ballet this evening?”

“Certainly.”

“Are you sure?”

“Quite,” returned the chevalier.

At this moment of the conversation between the two young men, Raoul
entered, looking full of anxiety. As soon as the chevalier, who had a
secret dislike for him, as for every other noble character, perceived him
enter, he rose from his seat.

“What do you advise me to do, then?” inquired De Guiche of the chevalier.

“I advise you to go to sleep in perfect tranquillity, my dear count.”

“And my advice, De Guiche,” said Raoul, “is the very opposite.”

“What is that?”

“To mount your horse and set off at once for one of your estates; on your
arrival, follow the chevalier’s advice, if you like; and, what is more,
you can sleep there as long and as tranquilly as you please.”

“What! set off!” exclaimed the chevalier, feigning surprise; “why should
De Guiche set off?”

“Because, and you cannot be ignorant of it—you particularly so—
because every one is talking about the scene which has passed between
Monsieur and De Guiche.”

De Guiche turned pale.

“Not at all,” replied the chevalier, “not at all; and you have been
wrongly informed, M. de Bragelonne.”

“I have been perfectly well informed, on the contrary, monsieur,” replied
Raoul, “and the advice I give De Guiche is that of a friend.”

During this discussion, De Guiche, somewhat shaken, looked alternately
first at one and then at the other of his advisers. He inwardly felt that
a game, important in all its consequences for the rest of his life, was
being played at that moment.

“Is it not fact,” said the chevalier, putting the question to the count
himself, “is it not fact, De Guiche, that the scene was not so tempestuous
as the Vicomte de Bragelonne seems to think, and who, moreover, was not
himself there?”

“Whether tempestuous or not,” persisted Raoul, “it is not precisely of the
scene itself that I am speaking, but of the consequences that may ensue. I
know that Monsieur has threatened, I know that Madame has been in tears.”

“Madame in tears!” exclaimed De Guiche, imprudently clasping his hands.

“Ah!” said the chevalier, laughing, “this is indeed a circumstance I was
not acquainted with. You are decidedly better informed than I am, Monsieur
de Bragelonne.”

“And it is because I am better informed than yourself, chevalier, that I
insist upon De Guiche leaving.”

“No, no; I regret to differ from you, vicomte; but his departure is
unnecessary. Why, indeed, should he leave? tell us why.”

“The king!”

“The king!” exclaimed De Guiche.

“Yes; I tell you the king has taken up the affair.”

“Bah!” said the chevalier, “the king likes De Guiche, and particularly his
father; reflect, that, if the count were to leave, it would be an
admission that he had done something which merited rebuke.”

“Why so?”

“No doubt of it; when one runs away, it is either from guilt or fear.”

“Sometimes, because a man is offended; often because he is wrongfully
accused,” said Bragelonne. “We will assign as a reason for his departure,
that he feels hurt and injured—nothing will be easier; we will say
that we both did our utmost to keep him, and you, at least, will not be
speaking otherwise than the truth. Come, De Guiche, you are innocent, and,
being so, the scene of to-day must have wounded you. So set off.”

“No, De Guiche, remain where you are,” said the chevalier; “precisely as
M. de Bragelonne has put it, because you are innocent. Once more, forgive
me, vicomte; but my opinion is the very opposite to your own.”

“And you are at perfect liberty to maintain it, monsieur; but be assured
that the exile which De Guiche will voluntarily impose upon himself will
be of short duration. He can terminate it whenever he pleases, and
returning from his voluntary exile, he will meet with smiles from all
lips; while, on the contrary, the anger of the king may now draw down a
storm upon his head, the end of which no one can foresee.”

The chevalier smiled, and muttered to himself, “That is the very thing I
wish.” And at the same time he shrugged his shoulders, a movement which
did not escape the count, who dreaded, if he quitted the court, to seem to
yield to a feeling of fear.

“I, too, am a prophet, but not a prophet of evil; on the contrary, count,
I say to you, ‘remain.’”

“Are you sure,” inquired De Guiche, “that the repetition of the ballet
still takes place?”

“Quite sure.”

“Well, you see, Raoul,” continued De Guiche, endeavoring to smile, “you
see, the court is not so very sorrowful, or so readily disposed for
internal dissensions, when dancing is carried on with such assiduity.
Come, acknowledge that,” said the count to Raoul, who shook his head,
saying, “I have nothing to add.”

“But,” inquired the chevalier, curious to learn whence Raoul had obtained
his information, the exactitude of which he was inwardly forced to admit,
“since you say you are well informed, vicomte, how can you be better
informed than myself, who am one of the prince’s most intimate
companions?”

“To such a declaration I submit. You certainly ought to be perfectly well
informed, I admit; and, as a man of honor is incapable of saying anything
but what he knows to be true, or of speaking otherwise than what he
thinks, I will say no more, but confess myself defeated, and leave you in
possession of the field of battle.”

Whereupon Raoul, who now seemed only to care to be left quiet, threw
himself upon a couch, whilst the count summoned his servants to aid him in
dressing. The chevalier, finding that time was passing away, wished to
leave; but he feared, too, that Raoul, left alone with De Guiche, might
yet influence him to change his mind. He therefore made use of his last
resource.

“Madame,” he said, “will be brilliant; she appears to-day in her costume
of Pomona.”

“Yes, that is so,” exclaimed the count.

“And she has just given directions in consequence,” continued the
chevalier. “You know, Monsieur de Bragelonne, that the king is to appear
as Spring.”

“It will be admirable,” said De Guiche; “and that is a better reason for
me to remain than any you have yet given, because I am to appear as
Autumn, and shall have to dance with Madame. I cannot absent myself
without the king’s orders, since my departure would interrupt the ballet.”

“I,” said the chevalier, “am to be only a simple egypan; true, it
is, I am a bad dancer, and my legs are not well made. Gentlemen, adieu. Do
not forget the basket of fruit, which you are to offer to Pomona, count.”

“I am now quite certain that he will remain,” murmured the Chevalier de
Lorraine to himself.

Raoul, when the chevalier had left, did not even attempt to dissuade his
friend, for he felt that it would be trouble thrown away; he merely
observed to the comte, in his melancholy and melodious voice, “You are
embarking in a most dangerous enterprise. I know you well; you go to
extremes in everything, and the lady you love does so, too. Admitting for
an instant that she should at last love you—”

“Oh, never!” exclaimed De Guiche.

“Why do you say never?”

“Because it would be a great misfortune for both of us.”

“In that case, instead of regarding you simply imprudent, I cannot but
consider you absolutely mad.”

“Why?”

“Are you perfectly sure—mind, answer me frankly—that you do
not wish her whom you love to make any sacrifice for you?”

“Yes, yes; quite sure.”

“Love her, then, at a distance.”

“What! at a distance?”

“Certainly; what matters being present or absent, since you expect nothing
from her? Love her portrait, a memento.”

“Raoul!”

“Love is a shadow, an illusion, a chimera; be devoted to the affection
itself, in giving a name to your ideality.”

“Ah!”

“You turn away; your servants approach. I will say no more. In good or bad
fortune, De Guiche, depend on me.”

“Indeed I shall do so.”

“Very well; that is all I had to say to you. Spare no pains in your
person, De Guiche, and look your very best. Adieu.”

“You will not be present, then, at the ballet, vicomte?”

“No; I shall have a visit to pay in town. Farewell, De Guiche.”

The reception was to take place in the king’s apartments. In the first
place, there were the queens, then Madame, and a few ladies of the court,
who had been carefully selected. A great number of courtiers, also
selected, occupied the time, before the dancing commenced, in conversing,
as people knew how to converse in those times. None of the ladies who had
received invitations appeared in the costumes of the fete, as the
Chevalier de Lorraine had predicted, but many conversations took place
about the rich and ingenious toilettes designed by different painters for
the ballet of “The Demi-Gods,” for thus were termed the kings and queens
of which Fontainebleau was about to become the Pantheon. Monsieur arrived,
holding in his hand a drawing representing his character; he looked
somewhat anxious; he bowed courteously to the young queen and his mother,
but saluted Madame almost cavalierly. His notice of her and his coldness
of manner were observed by all. M. de Guiche indemnified the princess by a
look of passionate devotion, and it must be admitted that Madame, as she
raised her eyes, returned it to him with interest. It is unquestionable
that De Guiche had never looked so handsome, for Madame’s glance had its
customary effect of lighting up the features of the son of the Marshal de
Gramont. The king’s sister-in-law felt a storm mustering above her head;
she felt, too, that during the whole of the day, so fruitful in future
events, she had acted unjustly, if not treasonably, towards one who loved
her with such a depth of devotion. In her eyes the moment seemed to have
arrived for an acknowledgement to the poor victim of the injustice of the
morning. Her heart spoke, and murmured the name of De Guiche; the count
was sincerely pitied and accordingly gained the victory over all others.
Neither Monsieur, nor the king, nor the Duke of Buckingham, was any longer
thought of; De Guiche at that moment reigned without a rival. But although
Monsieur also looked very handsome, still he could not be compared to the
count. It is well known—indeed all women say so—that a wide
difference invariably exists between the good looks of a lover and those
of a husband. Besides, in the present case, after Monsieur had left, and
after the courteous and affectionate recognition of the young queen and of
the queen-mother, and the careless and indifferent notice of Madame, which
all the courtiers had remarked; all these motives gave the lover the
advantage over the husband. Monsieur was too great a personage to notice
these details. Nothing is so certain as a well settled idea of superiority
to prove the inferiority of the man who has that opinion of himself. The
king arrived. Every one looked for what might possibly happen in the
glance, which began to bestir the world, like the brow of Jupiter Tonans.
Louis had none of his brother’s gloominess, but was perfectly radiant.
Having examined the greater part of the drawings which were displayed for
his inspection on every side, he gave his opinion or made his remarks upon
them, and in this manner rendered some happy and others wretched by a
single word. Suddenly his glance, which was smilingly directed towards
Madame, detected the slight correspondence established between the
princess and the count. He bit his lips, but when he opened them again to
utter a few commonplace remarks, he said, advancing towards the queens:—

“I have just been informed that everything is now prepared at
Fontainebleau, in accordance with my directions.” A murmur of satisfaction
arose from the different groups, and the king perceived on every face the
greatest anxiety to receive an invitation for the fetes. “I shall
leave to-morrow,” he added. Whereupon the profoundest silence immediately
ensued. “And I invite,” said the king, finishing, “all those who are now
present to get ready to accompany me.”

Smiling faces were now everywhere visible, with the exception of Monsieur,
who seemed to retain his ill-humor. The different noblemen and ladies of
the court thereupon defiled before the king, one after the other, in order
to thank his majesty for the great honor which had been conferred upon
them by the invitation. When it came to De Guiche’s turn, the king said,
“Ah! M. de Guiche, I did not see you.”

The comte bowed, and Madame turned pale. De Guiche was about to open his
lips to express his thanks, when the king said, “Comte, this is the season
for farming purposes in the country; I am sure your tenants in Normandy
will be glad to see you.”

The king, after this pitiless attack, turned his back on the poor comte,
whose turn it was now to become pale; he advanced a few steps towards the
king, forgetting that the king is never spoken to except in reply to
questions addressed.

“I have perhaps misunderstood your majesty,” he stammered out.

The king turned his head slightly, and with a cold and stern glance, which
plunged like a sword relentlessly into the hearts of those under disgrace,
repeated, “I said retire to your estates,” allowing every syllable to fall
slowly one by one.

A cold perspiration bedewed the comte’s face, his hands convulsively
opened, and his hat, which he held between his trembling fingers, fell to
the ground. Louis sought his mother’s glance, as though to show her that
he was master; he sought his brother’s triumphant look, as if to ask him
if he were satisfied with the vengeance taken; and lastly, his eyes fell
upon Madame; but the princess was laughing and smiling with Madame de
Noailles. She heard nothing, or rather had pretended not to hear at all.
The Chevalier de Lorraine looked on also, with one of those looks of fixed
hostility that seemed to give to a man’s glance the power of a lever when
it raises an obstacle, wrests it away, and casts it to a distance. M. de
Guiche was left alone in the king’s cabinet, the whole of the company
having departed. Shadows seemed to dance before his eyes. He suddenly
broke through the settled despair that overwhelmed him, and flew to hide
himself in his own room, where Raoul awaited him, immovable in his own sad
presentiments.

“Well?” he murmured, seeing his friend enter, bareheaded, with a wild gaze
and tottering gait.

“Yes, yes, it is true,” said De Guiche, unable to utter more, and falling
exhausted upon the couch.

“And she?” inquired Raoul.

“She,” exclaimed his unhappy friend, as he raised his hand clenched in
anger, towards Heaven. “She!—”

“What did she say and do?”

“She said that her dress suited her admirably, and then she laughed.”

A fit of hysteric laughter seemed to shatter his nerves, for he fell
backwards, completely overcome.

Chapter XXXV. Fontainebleau.

For four days, every kind of enchantment brought together in the
magnificent gardens of Fontainebleau had converted this spot into a place
of the most perfect enjoyment. M. Colbert seemed gifted with ubiquity. In
the morning there were the accounts of the previous night’s expenses to
settle; during the day, programmes, essays, enrolments, payments. M.
Colbert had amassed four millions of francs, and dispersed them with
sleepless economy. He was horrified at the expenses which mythology
involved; not a wood nymph, nor a dryad, that cost less than a hundred
francs a day! The dress alone amounted to three hundred francs. The
expense of powder and sulphur for fireworks amounted, every night, to a
hundred thousand francs. In addition to these, the illuminations on the
borders of the sheet of water cost thirty thousand francs every evening.
The fetes had been magnificent; and Colbert could not restrain his
delight. From time to time, he noticed Madame and the king setting forth
on hunting expeditions, or preparing for the reception of different
fantastic personages, solemn ceremonials, which had been extemporized a
fortnight before, and in which Madame’s sparkling wit and the king’s
magnificence were equally well displayed.

For Madame, the heroine of the fete, replied to the addresses of
the deputations from unknown races—Garamanths, Scythians,
Hyperboreans, Caucasians, and Patagonians, who seemed to issue from the
ground for the purpose of approaching her with their congratulations; and
upon every representative of these races the king bestowed a diamond, or
some other article of value. Then the deputies, in verses more or less
amusing, compared the king to the sun, Madame to Phoebe, the sun’s sister,
and the queen and Monsieur were no more spoken of than if the king had
married Henrietta of England, and not Maria Theresa of Austria. The happy
pair, hand in hand, imperceptibly pressing each other’s fingers, drank in
deep draughts the sweet beverage of adulation, by which the attractions of
youth, beauty, power and love are enhanced. Every one at Fontainebleau was
amazed at the extent of the influence which Madame had so rapidly acquired
over the king, and whispered among themselves that Madame was, in point of
fact, the true queen; and in effect, the king himself proclaimed its truth
by his every thought, word, and look. He formed his wishes, he drew his
inspirations from Madame’s eyes, and his delight was unbounded when Madame
deigned to smile upon him. And was Madame, on her side, intoxicated with
the power she wielded, as she beheld every one at her feet? This was a
question she herself could hardly answer; but what she did know was, that
she could frame no wish, and that she felt herself to be perfectly happy.
The result of all these changes, the source of which emanated from the
royal will, was that Monsieur, instead of being the second person in the
kingdom, had, in reality, become the third. And it was now far worse than
in the time when De Guiche’s guitars were heard in Madame’s apartments;
for, then, at least, Monsieur had the satisfaction of frightening those
who annoyed him. Since the departure, however, of the enemy, who had been
driven away by means of his alliance with the king, Monsieur had to submit
to a burden, heavier, but in a very different sense, to his former one.
Every evening Madame returned home quite exhausted. Horse-riding, bathing
in the Seine, spectacles, dinners under the leafy covert of the trees,
balls on the banks of the grand canal, concerts, etc., etc.; all this
would have been sufficient to have killed, not a slight and delicate
woman, but the strongest porter in the chateau. It is perfectly
true that, with regard to dancing, concerts, and promenades, and such
matters, a woman is far stronger than the most robust of porters. But,
however great a woman’s strength may be, there is a limit to it, and she
cannot hold out long under such a system. As for Monsieur, he had not even
the satisfaction of witnessing Madame’s abdication of her royalty in the
evening, for she lived in the royal pavilion with the young queen and the
queen-mother. As a matter of course, the Chevalier de Lorraine did not
quit Monsieur, and did not fail to distil drops of gall into every wound
the latter received. The result was, that Monsieur—who had at first
been in the highest spirits, and completely restored since Guiche’s
departure—subsided into his melancholy state three days after the
court was installed at Fontainebleau.

It happened, however, that, one day, about two o’clock in the afternoon,
Monsieur, who had risen late, and had bestowed upon his toilet more than
his usual attention,—it happened, we repeat, that Monsieur, who had
not heard of any plans having been arranged for the day, formed the
project of collecting his own court, and of carrying Madame off with him
to Moret, where he possessed a charming country house. He accordingly went
to the queen’s pavilion, and was astonished, on entering, to find none of
the royal servants in attendance. Quite alone, therefore, he entered the
rooms, a door on the left opening to Madame’s apartment, the one on the
right to the young queen’s. In his wife’s apartment, Monsieur was
informed, by a sempstress who was working there, that every one had left
at eleven o’clock, for the purpose of bathing in the Seine, that a grand
fete was to be made of the expedition, that all the carriages had
been placed at the park gates, and that they had all set out more than an
hour ago.

“Very good,” said Monsieur, “the idea is a good one; the heat is very
oppressive, and I have no objection to bathe, too.”

He summoned his servants, but no one came. He summoned those in attendance
on Madame, but everybody had gone out. He went to the stables, where he
was informed by a groom that there were no carriages of any description.
He desired that a couple of horses should be saddled, one for himself and
the other for his valet. The groom told him that all the horses had been
sent away. Monsieur, pale with anger, again descended towards the queen’s
apartments, and penetrated as far as Anne of Austria’s oratory, where he
perceived, through the half-opened tapestry-hangings, his young and
beautiful sister on her knees before the queen-mother, who appeared
weeping bitterly. He had not been either seen or heard. He cautiously
approached the opening, and listened, the sight of so much grief having
aroused his curiosity. Not only was the young queen weeping, but she was
complaining also. “Yes,” she said, “the king neglects me, the king devotes
himself to pleasures and amusements only, in which I have no share.”

“Patience, patience, my daughter,” said Anne of Austria, in Spanish; and
then, also in Spanish, added some words of advice, which Monsieur did not
understand. The queen replied by accusations, mingled with sighs and sobs,
among which Monsieur often distinguished the word banos, which
Maria Theresa accentuated with spiteful anger.

“The baths,” said Monsieur to himself; “it seems it is the baths that have
put her out.” And he endeavored to put together the disconnected phrases
which he had been able to understand. It was easy to guess that the queen
was complaining bitterly, and that, if Anne of Austria did not console
her, she at least endeavored to do so. Monsieur was afraid to be detected
listening at the door and he therefore made up his mind to cough; the two
queens turned round at the sound and Monsieur entered. At sight of the
prince, the young queen rose precipitately, and dried her tears. Monsieur,
however, knew the people he had to deal with too well, and was naturally
too polite to remain silent, and he accordingly saluted them. The
queen-mother smiled pleasantly at him, saying, “What do you want, Philip?”

“I?—nothing,” stammered Monsieur. “I was looking for—”

“Whom?”

“I was looking for Madame.”

“Madame is at the baths.”

“And the king?” said Monsieur, in a tone which made the queen tremble.

“The king also, the whole court as well,” replied Anne of Austria.

“Except you, madame,” said Monsieur.

“Oh! I,” said the young queen, “I seem to terrify all those who amuse
themselves.”

“And so do I,—judging from appearances,” rejoined Monsieur.

Anne of Austria made a sigh to her daughter-in-law, who withdrew, weeping.

Monsieur’s brows contracted, as he remarked aloud, “What a cheerless
house. What do you think of it, mother?”

“Why, no; everybody here is pleasure-hunting.”

“Yes, indeed, that is the very thing that makes those dull who do not care
for pleasure.”

“In what a tone you say that, Philip.”

“Upon my word, madame, I speak as I think.”

“Explain yourself; what is the matter?”

“Ask my sister-in-law, rather, who, just now, was detailing all her
grievances to you.”

“Her grievances, what—”

“Yes, I was listening; accidentally, I confess, but still I listened—so
that I heard only too well my sister complain of those famous baths of
Madame—”

“Ah! folly!”

“No, no, no; people are not always foolish when they weep. The queen said
banos, which means baths.”

“In that case, madame,” replied the prince, “I, too, must with great
humility accuse myself of possessing the same defect.”

“You also, Philip?”

“Certainly.”

“Are you really jealous of these baths?”

“And why not, madame, when the king goes to the baths with my wife, and
does not take the queen? Why not, when Madame goes to the baths with the
king, and does not do me the honor to even invite me? And you enjoin my
sister-in-law to be satisfied, and require me to be satisfied, too.”

“You are raving, my dear Philip,” said Anne of Austria; “you have driven
the Duke of Buckingham away; you have been the cause of M. de Guiche’s
exile; do you now wish to send the king away from Fontainebleau?”

“I do not pretend to anything of the kind, madame,” said Monsieur,
bitterly; “but, at least, I can withdraw, and I shall do so.”

“Jealous of the king—jealous of your brother?”

“Yes, madame, I am jealous of the king—of my own brother, and
remarkably jealous, too.”

“Really, Monsieur,” exclaimed Anne of Austria, affecting to be indignant,
“I begin to believe you are mad, and a sworn enemy to my repose. I
therefore abandon the place to you, for I have no means of defending
myself against such monomanias.”

She arose and left Monsieur a prey to the most extravagant transport of
passion. He remained for a moment completely bewildered; then, recovering
himself, again went to the stables, found the groom, once more asked him
for a carriage or a horse, and upon his reply that there was neither the
one or the other, Monsieur snatched a long whip from the hand of a
stable-boy, and began to pursue the poor devil of a groom all round the
servants’ courtyard, whipping him the while, in spite of his cries and
excuses; then, quite out of breath, covered with perspiration, and
trembling in every limb, he returned to his own apartments, broke in
pieces some beautiful specimens of porcelain, and then got into bed,
booted and spurred as he was, crying out for some one to come to him. 4

Chapter XXXVI. The Bath.

At Vulaines, beneath the impenetrable shade of flowering osiers and
willows, which, as they bent down their green heads, dipped the
extremities of their branches in the blue waters, a long and flat-bottomed
boat, with ladders covered with long blue curtains, served as a refuge for
the bathing Dianas, who, as they left the water, were watched by twenty
plumed Acteons, who, eagerly, and full of admiration, galloped up and down
the flowery banks of the river. But Diana herself, even the chaste Diana,
clothed in her long chlamys, was less beautiful—less impenetrable,
than Madame, as young and beautiful as that goddess herself. For,
notwithstanding the fine tunic of the huntress, her round and delicate
knee can be seen; and notwithstanding the sonorous quiver, her brown
shoulders can be detected; whereas, in Madame’s case, a long white veil
enveloped her, wrapping her round and round a hundred times, as she
resigned herself into the hands of her female attendants, and thus was
rendered inaccessible to the most indiscreet, as well as to the most
penetrating gaze. When she ascended the ladder, the poets were present—and
all were poets when Madame was the subject of discussion—the twenty
poets who were galloping about, stopped, and with one voice, exclaimed
that pearls, and not drops of water, were falling from her person, to be
lost again in the happy river. The king, the center of these effusions,
and of this respectful homage, imposed silence upon those expatiators, for
whom it seemed impossible to exhaust their raptures, and he rode away, for
fear of offending, even through the silken curtains, the modesty of the
woman and the dignity of the princess. A great blank thereupon ensued in
the scene, and perfect silence in the boat. From the movements on board—from
the flutterings and agitations of the curtains—the goings to and fro
of the female attendants engaged in their duties, could be guessed.

The king smilingly listened to the conversation of the courtiers around
him, but it could easily be perceived that he gave but little, if any,
attention to their remarks. In fact, hardly had the sound of the rings
drawn along the curtain-rods announced that Madame was dressed, and that
the goddess was about to make her reappearance, than the king, returning
to his former post immediately, and running quite close to the river-bank,
gave the signal for all those to approach whose duty or pleasure summoned
them to Madame’s side. The pages hurried forward, conducting the led
horses; the carriages, which had remained sheltered under the trees,
advanced towards the tent, followed by a crowd of servants, bearers, and
female attendants, who, while their masters had been bathing, had mutually
exchanged their own observations, critical remarks, and the discussion of
matters personal—the fugitive journal of that period, of which no
one now remembers anything, not even by the waves, the witnesses of what
went on that day—themselves now sublimed into immensity, as the
actors have vanished into eternity.

A crowd of people swarming upon the banks of the river, without reckoning
the groups of peasants drawn together by their anxiety to see the king and
the princess, was, for many minutes, the most disorderly, but the most
agreeable, mob imaginable. The king dismounted from his horse, a movement
which was imitated by all the courtiers, and offered his hat to Madame,
whose rich riding-habit displayed her fine figure, which was set off to
great advantage by that garment, made of fine woolen cloth embroidered
with silver. Her hair, still damp and blacker than jet, hung in heavy
masses upon her white and delicate neck. Joy and health sparkled in her
beautiful eyes; composed, yet full of energy, she inhaled the air in deep
draughts, under a lace parasol, which was borne by one of her pages.
Nothing could be more charming, more graceful, more poetical, than these
two figures buried under the rose-colored shade of the parasol, the king,
whose white teeth were displayed in continual smiles, and Madame, whose
black eyes sparkled like carbuncles in the glittering reflection of the
changing hues of the silk. When Madame approached her horse, a magnificent
animal of Andalusian breed, of spotless white, somewhat heavy, perhaps,
but with a spirited and splendid head, in which the mixture, happily
combined, of Arabian and Spanish blood could be readily traced, and whose
long tail swept the ground; and as the princess affected difficulty in
mounting, the king took her in his arms in such a manner that Madame’s arm
was clasped like a circlet of alabaster around the king’s neck. Louis, as
he withdrew, involuntarily touched with his lips the arm, which was not
withheld, and the princess having thanked her royal equerry, every one
sprang to his saddle at the same moment. The king and Madame drew aside to
allow the carriages, the outriders, and runners, to pass by. A fair
proportion of the cavaliers, released from the restraint etiquette had
imposed upon them, gave the rein to their horses, and darted after the
carriages which bore the maids of honor, as blooming as so many virgin
huntresses around Diana, and the human whirlwind, laughing, chattering,
and noisy, passed onward.

The king and Madame, however, kept their horses in hand at a foot-pace.
Behind his majesty and his sister-in-law, certain of the courtiers —those,
at least, who were seriously disposed or were anxious to be within reach,
or under the eyes, of the king—followed at a respectful distance,
restraining their impatient horses, regulating their pace by that of the
king and Madame, and abandoned themselves to all the delight and
gratification which is to be found in the conversation of clever people,
who can, with perfect courtesy, make a thousand atrocious, but laughable
remarks about their neighbors. In their stifled laughter, and in the
little reticences of their sardonic humor, Monsieur, the poor absentee,
was not spared. But they pitied, and bewailed greatly, the fate of De
Guiche, and it must be confessed that their compassion, as far as he was
concerned, was not misplaced. The king and Madame having breathed the
horses, and repeated a hundred times over such remarks as the courtiers,
who supplied them with talk, suggested to them, set off at a hand gallop,
and the leafy coverts of the forest resounded to the footfalls of the
mounted party. To the conversations beneath the shade of the trees,—to
remarks made in the shape of confidential communications, and
observations, mysteriously exchanged, succeeded the noisiest bursts of
laughter;—from the very outriders to royalty itself, merriment
seemed to spread. Every one began to laugh and to cry out. The magpies and
the jays fluttered away uttering their guttural cries, beneath the waving
avenues of oaks; the cuckoo staid his monotonous cry in the recesses of
the forest; the chaffinch and tomtit flew away in clouds; while the
terrified deer bounded riverwards from the midst of the thickets. This
crowd, spreading joy, confusion, and light wherever it passed, was
heralded, it may be said, to the chateau by its own clamor. As the king
and Madame entered the village, they were received by the acclamations of
the crowd. Madame hastened to look for Monsieur, for she instinctively
understood that he had been far too long kept from sharing in this joy.
The king went to rejoin the queens; he knew he owed them—one
especially—a compensation for his long absence. But Madame was not
admitted to Monsieur’s apartments, and she was informed that Monsieur was
asleep. The king, instead of being met by Maria Theresa smiling, as was
usual with her, found Anne of Austria in the gallery watching for his
return, who advanced to meet him, and taking him by the hand, led him to
her own apartment. No one ever knew what was the nature of the
conversation which took place between them, or rather what it was that the
queen-mother said to Louis XIV.; but the general tenor of the interview
might certainly be guessed from the annoyed expression of the king’s face
as he left her.

But we, whose mission it is to interpret all things, as it is also to
communicate our interpretations to our readers,—we should fail in
our duty, if we were to leave them in ignorance of the result of this
interview. It will be found sufficiently detailed, at least we hope so, in
the following chapter.

Chapter XXXVII. The Butterfly-Chase.

The king, on retiring to his apartments to give some directions and to
arrange his ideas, found on his toilette-glass a small note, the
handwriting of which seemed disguised. He opened it and read—“Come
quickly, I have a thousand things to say to you.” The king and Madame had
not been separated a sufficiently long time for these thousand things to
be the result of the three thousand which they had been saying to each
other during the route which separated Vulaines from Fontainebleau. The
confused and hurried character of the note gave the king a great deal to
reflect upon. He occupied himself but slightly with his toilette, and set
off to pay his visit to Madame. The princess, who did not wish to have the
appearance of expecting him, had gone into the gardens with the ladies of
her suite. When the king was informed that Madame had left her apartments
and had gone for a walk in the gardens, he collected all the gentlemen he
could find, and invited them to follow him. He found Madame engaged in
chasing butterflies, on a large lawn bordered with heliotrope and
flowering broom. She was looking on as the most adventurous and youngest
of her ladies ran to and fro, and with her back turned to a high hedge,
very impatiently awaited the arrival of the king, with whom she had
appointed the rendezvous. The sound of many feet upon the gravel walk made
her turn round. Louis XIV. was hatless, he had struck down with his cane a
peacock butterfly, which Monsieur de Saint-Aignan had picked up from the
ground quite stunned.

“You see, Madame,” said the king, as he approached her, “that I, too, am
hunting on your behalf!” and then, turning towards those who had
accompanied him, said, “Gentlemen, see if each of you cannot obtain as
much for these ladies,” a remark which was a signal for all to retire. And
thereupon a curious spectacle might have been observed; old and corpulent
courtiers were seen running after butterflies, losing their hats as they
ran, and with their raised canes cutting down the myrtles and the furze,
as they would have done the Spaniards.

The king offered Madame his arm, and they both selected, as the center of
observation, a bench with a roof of boards and moss, a kind of hut roughly
designed by the modest genius of one of the gardeners who had inaugurated
the picturesque and fanciful amid the formal style of the gardening of
that period. This sheltered retreat, covered with nasturtiums and climbing
roses, screened the bench, so that the spectators, insulated in the middle
of the lawn, saw and were seen on every side, but could not be heard,
without perceiving those who might approach for the purpose of listening.
Seated thus, the king made a sign of encouragement to those who were
running about; and then, as if he were engaged with Madame in a
dissertation upon the butterfly, which he had thrust through with a gold
pin and fastened on his hat, said to her, “How admirably we are placed
here for conversations.”

“Yes, sire, for I wished to be heard by you alone, and yet to be seen by
every one.”

“And I also,” said Louis.

“My note surprised you?”

“Terrified me rather. But what I have to tell you is more important.”

“It cannot be, sire. Do you know that Monsieur refuses to see me?”

“Why so?”

“Can you not guess why?”

“Ah, Madame! in that case we have both the same thing to say to each
other.”

“What has happened to you, then?”

“You wish me to begin?”

“Yes, for I have told you all.”

“Well, then, as soon as I returned, I found my mother waiting for me, and
she led me away to her own apartments.”

“The queen-mother?” said Madame, with some anxiety, “the matter is serious
then.”

“Indeed it is, for she told me... but, in the first place, allow me to
preface what I have to say with one remark. Has Monsieur ever spoken to
you about me?”

“Often.”

“Has he ever spoken to you about his jealousy?”

“More frequently still.”

“Of his jealousy of me?”

“No, but of the Duke of Buckingham and De Guiche.”

“Well, Madame, Monsieur’s present idea is a jealousy of myself.”

“Really,” replied the princess, smiling archly.

“And it really seems to me,” continued the king, “that we have never given
any ground—”

“Never! at least I have not. But who told you that Monsieur was
jealous?”

“My mother represented to me that Monsieur entered her apartments like a
madman, that he uttered a thousand complaints against you, and—forgive
me for saying it—against your coquetry. It appears that Monsieur
indulges in injustice, too.”

“You are very kind, sire.”

“My mother reassured him; but he pretended that people reassure him too
often, and that he had had quite enough of it.”

“Would it not be better for him not to make himself uneasy in any way?”

“The very thing I said.”

“Confess, sire, that the world is very wicked. Is it possible that a
brother and sister cannot converse together, or take pleasure in each
other’s company, without giving rise to remarks and suspicions? For
indeed, sire, we are doing no harm, and have no intention of doing any.”
And she looked at the king with that proud yet provoking glance that
kindles desire in the coldest and wisest of men.

“No!” sighed the king, “that is true.”

“You know very well, sire, that if it were to continue, I should be
obliged to make a disturbance. Do you decide upon our conduct, and say
whether it has, or has not, been perfectly correct.”

“Oh, certainly—perfectly correct.”

“Often alone together,—for we delight in the same things,—we
might possibly be led away into error, but have we been? I regard
you as a brother, and nothing more.”

The king frowned. She continued:

“Your hand, which often meets my own, does not excite in me that agitation
and emotion which is the case with those who love each other, for instance—”

“Enough,” said the king, “enough, I entreat you. You have no pity—you
are killing me.”

“What is the matter?”

“In fact, then, you distinctly say you experience nothing when near me.”

“Oh, sire! I don’t say that—my affection—”

“Enough, Henrietta, I again entreat you. If you believe me to be marble,
as you are, undeceive yourself.”

“I do not understand you, sire.”

“Very well,” said the king, casting down his eyes. “And so our meetings,
the pressure of each other’s hand, the looks we have exchanged—Yes,
yes; you are right, and I understand your meaning,” and he buried his face
in his hands.

“Take care, sire,” said Madame, hurriedly, “Monsieur de Saint-Aignan is
looking at you.”

“Of course,” said Louis, angrily; “never even the shadow of liberty! never
any sincerity in my intercourse with any one! I imagine I have found a
friend, who is nothing but a spy; a dearer friend, who is only a—sister!”

Madame was silent, and cast down her eyes.

“My husband is jealous,” she murmured, in a tone of which nothing could
equal its sweetness and charm.

“You are right,” exclaimed the king, suddenly.

“You see,” she said, looking at him in a manner that set his heart on
fire, “you are free, you are not suspected, the peace of your house is not
disturbed.”

“Alas,” said the king, “as yet you know nothing, for the queen is
jealous.”

“Maria Theresa!”

“Stark mad with jealousy! Monsieur’s jealousy arises from hers; she was
weeping and complaining to my mother, and was reproaching us for those
bathing parties, which have made me so happy.”

“And me too,” answered Madame, by a look.

“When, suddenly,” continued the king, “Monsieur, who was listening, heard
the word ‘banos,’ which the queen pronounced with some degree of
bitterness, that awakened his attention; he entered the room, looking
quite wild, broke into the conversation, and began to quarrel with my
mother so bitterly that she was obliged to leave him; so that, while you
have a jealous husband to deal with, I shall have perpetually present
before me a specter of jealousy with swollen eyes, a cadaverous face, and
sinister looks.”

“Poor king,” murmured Madame, as she lightly touched the king’s hand. He
retained her hand in his, and in order to press it without exciting
suspicion in the spectators, who were not so much taken up with the
butterflies that they could not occupy themselves about other matters, and
who perceived clearly enough that there was some mystery in the king’s and
Madame’s conversation, Louis placed the dying butterfly before his
sister-in-law, and bent over it as if to count the thousand eyes of its
wings, or the particles of golden dust which covered it. Neither of them
spoke; however, their hair mingled, their breaths united, and their hands
feverishly throbbed in each other’s grasp. Five minutes passed in this
manner.

Chapter XXXVIII. What Was Caught after the Butterflies.

The two young people remained for a moment with their heads bent down,
bowed, as it were, beneath the double thought of the love which was
springing up in their hearts, and which gives birth to so many happy
fancies in the imaginations of twenty years of age. Henrietta gave a side
glance, from time to time, at the king. Hers was one of those
finely-organized natures capable of looking inwardly at itself, as well as
at others at the same moment. She perceived Love lying at the bottom of
Louis’s heart, as a skillful diver sees a pearl at the bottom of the sea.
She knew Louis was hesitating, if not in doubt, and that his indolent or
timid heart required aid and encouragement. “And so?” she said,
interrogatively, breaking the silence.

“What do you mean?” inquired Louis, after a moment’s pause.

“I mean, that I shall be obliged to return to the resolution I had
formed.”

“To what resolution?”

“To that which I have already submitted to your majesty.”

“When?”

“On the very day we had a certain explanation about Monsieur’s
jealousies.”

“What did you say to me then?” inquired Louis, with some anxiety.

“Do you not remember, sire?”

“Alas! if it be another cause of unhappiness, I shall recollect it soon
enough.”

“A cause of unhappiness for myself alone, sire,” replied Madame Henrietta;
“but as it is necessary, I must submit to it.”

“At least, tell me what it is,” said the king.

“Absence.”

“Still that unkind resolve?”

“Believe me, sire, I have not found it without a violent struggle with
myself; it is absolutely necessary I should return to England.”

“Never, never will I permit you to leave France,” exclaimed the king.

“And yet, sire,” said Madame, affecting a gentle yet sorrowful
determination, “nothing is more urgently necessary; nay, more than that, I
am persuaded it is your mother’s desire I should do so.”

“Desire!” exclaimed the king; “that is a very strange expression to use to
me.”

“Still,” replied Madame Henrietta, smilingly, “are you not happy in
submitting to the wishes of so good a mother?”

“Enough, I implore you; you rend my very soul.”

“I?”

“Yes; for you speak of your departure with tranquillity.”

“I was not born for happiness, sire,” replied the princess, dejectedly;
“and I acquired, in very early life, the habit of seeing my dearest wishes
disappointed.”

“Do you speak truly?” said the king. “Would your departure gainsay any one
of your cherished thoughts?”

“If I were to say ‘yes,’ would you begin to take your misfortune
patiently?”

“How cruel you are!”

“Take care, sire; some one is coming.”

The king looked all round him, and said, “No, there is no one,” and then
continued: “Come, Henrietta, instead of trying to contend against
Monsieur’s jealousy by a departure which would kill me—”

Henrietta slightly shrugged her shoulders like a woman unconvinced. “Yes,”
repeated Louis, “which would kill me, I say. Instead of fixing your mind
on this departure, does not your imagination—or rather does not your
heart—suggest some expedient?”

“What is it you wish my heart to suggest?”

“Tell me, how can one prove to another that it is wrong to be jealous?”

“In the first place, sire, by giving no motive for jealousy; in other
words, in loving no one but the person in question.”

“Oh! I expected more than that.”

“What did you expect?”

“That you would simply tell me that jealous people are pacified by
concealing the affection which is entertained for the object of jealousy.”

“Dissimulation is difficult, sire.”

“Yet it is only be means of conquering difficulties that any happiness is
attained. As far as I am concerned, I swear I will give the lie to those
who are jealous of me by pretending to treat you like any other woman.”

“A bad, as well as unsafe, means,” said the young princess, shaking her
pretty head.

“You seem to think everything bad, dear Henrietta,” said Louis,
discontentedly. “You negative everything I propose. Suggest, at least,
something else in its stead. Come, try and think. I trust implicitly to a
woman’s invention. Do you invent in your turn?”

“Well, sire, I have hit upon something. Will you listen to it?”

“Can you ask me? You speak of a matter of life or death to me, and then
ask if I will listen.”

“Well, I judge of it by my own case. If my husband intended to put me on
the wrong scent with regard to another woman, one thing would reassure me
more than anything else.”

“What would that be?”

“In the first place to see that he never took any notice of the woman in
question.”

“Exactly. That is precisely what I said just now.”

“Very well; but in order to be perfectly reassured on the subject, I
should like to see him occupy himself with some one else.”

“Ah! I understand you,” replied Louis, smiling. “But confess, dear
Henrietta, if the means is at least ingenious, it is hardly charitable.”

“Why so?”

“In curing the dread of a wound in a jealous person’s mind, you inflict
one upon the heart. His fear ceases, it is true; but the evil still
exists; and that seems to me to be far worse.”

“Agreed; but he does not detect, he does not suspect the real enemy; he
does no prejudice to love itself; he concentrates all his strength on the
side where his strength will do no injury to anything or any one. In a
word, sire, my plan, which I confess I am surprised to find you dispute,
is mischievous to jealous people, it is true; but to lovers it is full of
advantage. Besides, let me ask, sire, who, except yourself, has ever
thought of pitying jealous people? Are they not a melancholy crew of
grumblers always equally unhappy, whether with or without a cause? You may
remove that cause, but you never can remove their sufferings. It is a
disease which lies in the imagination, and, like all imaginary disorders,
it is incurable. By the by, I remember an aphorism upon this subject, of
poor Dr. Dawley, a clever and amusing man, who, had it not been for my
brother, who could not do without him, I should have with me now. He used
to say, ‘Whenever you are likely to suffer from two affections, choose
that which will give you the least trouble, and I will allow you to retain
it; for it is positive,’ he said, ‘that that very ailment is of the
greatest service to me, in order to enable me to get rid of the other.’”

“And those clever people produce adorable pupils. I will grant this Daley,
Darley, Dawley, or whatever you call him, a pension for his aphorism; but
I entreat you, Henrietta, to begin by choosing the least of your evils.
You do not answer—you smile. I guess that the least of your bugbears
is your stay in France. I will allow you to retain this information; and,
in order to begin with the cure of the other, I will this very day begin
to look out for a subject which shall divert the attention of the jealous
members of either sex who persecute us both.”

“Hush! this time some one is really coming,” said Madame; and she stooped
to gather a flower from the thick grass at her feet. Some one, in fact,
was approaching; for, suddenly, a bevy of young girls ran down from the
top of the hillock, following the cavaliers—the cause of this
interruption being a magnificent hawk-moth, with wings like rose-leaves.
The prey in question had fallen into the net of Mademoiselle de
Tonnay-Charente, who displayed it with some pride to her less successful
rivals. The queen of the chase had seated herself some twenty paces from
the bank on which Louis and Madame Henrietta were reclining; and leaned
her back against a magnificent oak-tree entwined with ivy, and stuck the
butterfly on the long cane she carried in her hand. Mademoiselle de
Tonnay-Charente was very beautiful, and the gentlemen, accordingly,
deserted her companions, and under the pretext of complimenting her upon
her success, pressed in a circle around her. The king and princess looked
gloomily at this scene, as spectators of maturer age look on at the games
of little children. “They seem to be amusing themselves there,” said the
king.

“Greatly, sire; I have always found that people are amused wherever youth
and beauty are to be found.”

“What do you think of Mademoiselle de Tonnay-Charente, Henrietta?”
inquired the king.

“I think she has rather too much flax-yellow and lily-whiteness in her
complexion,” replied Madame, fixing in a moment upon the only fault it was
possible to find in the almost perfect beauty of the future Madame de
Montespan.”

“Rather too fair, yes; but beautiful, I think, in spite of that.”

“Is that your opinion, sire?”

“Yes, really.”

“Very well; and it is mine, too.”

“And she seems to be much sought after.”

“On, that is a matter of course. Lovers flutter from one to another. If we
had hunted for lovers instead of butterflies, you can see, from those who
surround her, what successful sport we should have had.”

“Tell me, Henrietta, what would be said if the king were to make himself
one of those lovers, and let his glance fall in that direction? Would some
one else be jealous, in such a case?”

“Oh! sire, Mademoiselle de Tonnay-Charente is a very efficacious remedy,”
said Madame, with a sigh. “She would cure a jealous man, certainly; but
she might possibly make a woman jealous, too.”

“I! what should I say, sire, except that to give such an advice would be
to supply arms against myself? It would be folly or pride to advise you to
take, for the heroine of an assumed affection, a woman more beautiful than
the one for whom you pretend to feel real regard.”

The king tried to take Madame’s hand in his own; his eyes sought hers; and
then he murmured a few words so full of tenderness, but pronounced in so
low a tone, that the historian, who ought to hear everything, could not
hear them. Then, speaking aloud, he said, “Do you yourself choose for me
the one who is to cure our jealous friend. To her, then, all my devotion,
all my attention, all the time that I can spare from my occupations, shall
be devoted. For her shall be the flower that I may pluck for you, the fond
thoughts with which you have inspired me. Towards her I will direct the
glance I dare not bestow upon you, and which ought to be able to rouse you
from your indifference. But, be careful in your selection, lest, in
offering her the rose which I may have plucked, I find myself conquered by
you; and my looks, my hand, my lips, turn immediately towards you, even
were the whole world to guess my secret.”

While these words escaped from the king’s lips, in a stream of wild
affection, Madame blushed, breathless, happy, proud, almost intoxicated
with delight. She could find nothing to say in reply; her pride and her
thirst for homage were satisfied. “I shall fail,” she said, raising her
beautiful black eyes, “but not as you beg me, for all this incense which
you wish to burn on the altar of another divinity. Ah! sire, I too shall
be jealous of it, and want restored to me; and would not that a particle
of it should be lost in the way. Therefore, sire, with your royal
permission, I will choose one who shall appear to me the least likely to
distract your attention, and who will leave my image intact and unshadowed
in your heart.”

“Happily for me,” said the king, “your heart is not hard and unfeeling. If
it were so, I should be alarmed at the threat you hold out. Precautions
were taken on this point, and around you, as around myself, it would be
difficult to meet with a disagreeable-looking face.”

Whilst the king was speaking, Madame had risen from her seat, looked
around the greensward, and after a careful and silent examination, she
called the king to her side, and said, “See yonder, sire, upon the
declivity of that little hill, near that group of Guelder roses, that
beautiful girl walking alone, her head down, her arms hanging by her side,
with her eyes fixed upon the flowers, which she crushes beneath her feet,
like one who is lost in thought.”

“Mademoiselle de Valliere, do you mean?” remarked the king.

“Yes.”

“Oh!”

“Will she not suit you, sire?”

“Why, look how thin the poor child is. She has hardly any flesh upon her
bones.”

“Nay: am I stout then?”

“She is so melancholy.”

“The greater contrast to myself, who am accused of being too lively.”

“She is lame.”

“Do you really think so?”

“No doubt of it. Look; she has allowed every one to pass by her, through
fear of her defect being remarked.”

“Well, she will not run so fast as Daphne, and will not be as able to
escape Apollo.”

“Henrietta,” said the king, out of temper; “of all your maids of honor,
you have really selected for me the one most full of defects.”

“Still she is one of my maids of honor.”

“Of course; but what do you mean?”

“I mean that, in order to visit this new divinity, you will not be able to
do so without paying a visit to my apartments, and that, as propriety will
forbid your conversing with her in private, you will be compelled to see
her in my circle, to speak, as it were, at me, while speaking to her. I
mean, in fact, that those who may be jealous, will be wrong if they
suppose you come to my apartments for my sake, since you will go there for
Mademoiselle de la Valliere.”

“Who happens to be lame.”

“Hardly that.”

“Who never opens her lips.”

“But who, when she does open them, displays a beautiful set of teeth.”

“Who may serve as a model for an osteologist.”

“Your favor will change her appearance.”

“Henrietta!”

“At all events you allowed me to choose.”

“Alas! yes.”

“Well, my choice is made: I impose her upon you, and you must submit.”

“Oh! I would accept one of the furies, if you were to insist upon it.”

“La Valliere is as gentle as a lamb: do not fear she will ever contradict
you when you tell her you love her,” said Madame, laughing.

“You are not afraid, are you, that I shall say too much to her?”

“It would be for my sake.”

“The treaty is agreed to, then?”

“Not only so, but signed. You will continue to show me the friendship of a
brother, the attention of a brother, the gallantry of a monarch, will you
not?”

“I will preserve for you intact a heart that has already become accustomed
to beat only at your command.”

“Very well, do you not see that we have guaranteed the future by this
means?”

“I hope so.”

“Will your mother cease to regard me as an enemy?”

“Yes.”

“Will Maria Theresa leave off speaking in Spanish before Monsieur, who has
a horror of conversation held in foreign languages, because he always
thinks he is being ill spoken of? and lastly,” continued the princess,
“will people persist in attributing a wrongful affection to the king when
the truth is, we can offer nothing to each other, except absolute
sympathy, free from mental reservation?”

“Yes, yes,” said the king, hesitatingly. “But other things may still be
said of us.”

“What can be said, sire? shall we never be left in tranquillity?”

“People will say I am deficient in taste; but what is my self-respect in
comparison with your tranquillity?”

“In comparison with my honor, sire, and that of our family, you mean.
Besides, I beg you to attend, do not be so hastily prejudiced against La
Valliere. She is slightly lame, it is true, but she is not deficient in
good sense. Moreover, all that the king touches is converted into gold.”

“Well, Madame, rest assured of one thing, namely, that I am still grateful
to you: you might even yet make me pay dearer for your stay in France.”

“Sire, some one approaches.”

“Well!”

“One last word.”

“Say it.”

“You are prudent and judicious, sire; but in the present instance you will
be obliged to summon to your aid all your prudence, and all your
judgment.”

“Oh!” exclaimed Louis, laughing, “from this very day I shall begin to act
my part, and you shall see whether I am not quite fit to represent the
character of a tender swain. After luncheon, there will be a promenade in
the forest, and then there is supper and the ballet at ten o’clock.”

“I know it.”

“The ardor of my passion shall blaze more brilliantly than the fireworks,
shall shine more steadily than our friend Colbert’s lamps; it shall shine
so dazzlingly that the queens and Monsieur will be almost blinded by it.”

“Take care, sire, take care.”

“In Heaven’s name, what have I done, then?”

“I shall begin to recall the compliments I paid you just now. You prudent!
you wise! did I say? Why, you begin by the most reckless inconsistencies!
Can a passion be kindled in this manner, like a torch, in a moment? Can a
monarch, such as you are, without any preparation, fall at the feet of a
girl like La Valliere?”

“Ah! Henrietta, now I understand you. We have not yet begun the campaign,
and you are plundering me already.”

“No, I am only recalling you to common-sense ideas. Let your passion be
kindled gradually, instead of allowing it to burst forth so suddenly.
Jove’s thunders and lightnings are heard and seen before the palace is set
on fire. Everything has its commencements. If you are so easily excited,
no one will believe you are really captivated, and every one will think
you out of your senses—if even, indeed, the truth itself not be
guessed. The public is not so fatuous as they seem.”

The king was obliged to admit that Madame was an angel for sense, and the
very reverse for cleverness. He bowed, and said: “Agreed, Madame, I will
think over my plan of attack: great military men—my cousin De Conde
for instance—grow pale in meditation upon their strategical plans,
before they move one of the pawns, which people call armies; I therefore
wish to draw up a complete plan of campaign; for you know that the tender
passion is subdivided in a variety of ways. Well, then, I shall stop at
the village of Little Attentions, at the hamlet of Love-Letters, before I
follow the road of Visible Affection; the way is clear enough, you know,
and poor Madame de Scudery would never forgive me for passing though a
halting-place without stopping.”

“Oh! now we have returned to our proper senses, shall we say adieu, sire?”

“Alas! it must be so, for see, we are interrupted.”

“Yes, indeed,” said Henrietta, “they are bringing Mademoiselle de
Tonnay-Charente and her sphinx butterfly in grand procession this way.”

“It is perfectly well understood, that this evening, during the promenade,
I am to make my escape into the forest, and find La Valliere without you.”

“I will take care to send her away.”

“Very well! I will speak to her when she is with her companions, and I
will then discharge my first arrow at her.”

“Be skillful,” said Madame, laughing, “and do not miss the heart.”

Then the princess took leave of the king, and went forward to meet the
merry troop, which was advancing with much ceremony, and a great many
pretended flourishes of trumpets, imitated with their mouths.

Chapter XXXIX. The Ballet of the Seasons.

At the conclusion of the banquet, which was served at five o’clock, the
king entered his cabinet, where his tailors were awaiting him for the
purpose of trying on the celebrated costume representing Spring, which was
the result of so much imagination, and had cost so many efforts of thought
to the designers and ornament-workers of the court. As for the ballet
itself, every person knew the part he had to take in it, and how to
perform it. The king had resolved to make it surprise. Hardly, therefore,
had he finished his conference, and entered his own apartment, than he
desired his two masters of the ceremonies, Villeroy and Saint-Aignan, to
be sent for. Both replied that they only awaited his orders, and that
everything was ready to begin, but that it was necessary to be sure of
fine weather and a favorable night before these orders could be carried
out. The king opened his window; the pale-gold hues of the evening were
visible on the horizon through the vistas of the wood, and the moon, white
as snow, was already mounting the heavens. Not a ripple could be noticed
on the surface of the green waters; the swans themselves, even, reposing
with folded wings like ships at anchor, seemed inspirations of the warmth
of the air, the freshness of the water, and the silence of the beautiful
evening. The king, having observed all these things, and contemplated the
magnificent picture before him, gave the order which De Villeroy and De
Saint-Aignan awaited; but with a view of insuring the execution of this
order in a royal manner, one last question was necessary, and Louis XIV.
put it to the two gentlemen in the following manner:—“Have you any
money?”

“Yes, sire, and M. Colbert said he would wait upon your majesty, as soon
as your majesty should manifest an intention of carrying out the fetes,
of which he has furnished the programme.”

“Let him come in, then,” said the king; and as if Colbert had been
listening at the door for the purpose of keeping himself au courant
with the conversation, he entered as soon as the king had pronounced his
name to the two courtiers.

“Ah! M. Colbert,” said the king. “Gentlemen, to your posts,” whereupon
Saint-Aignan and Villeroy took their leave. The king seated himself in an
easy-chair near the window, saying: “The ballet will take place this
evening, M. Colbert.”

“In that case, sire, I will pay all accounts to-morrow.”

“Why so?”

“I promised the tradespeople to pay their bills the day following that on
which the ballet should take place.”

“Very well, M. Colbert, pay them, since you have promised to do so.”

“Certainly, sire; but I must have money to do that.”

“What! have not the four millions, which M. Fouquet promised, been sent? I
forgot to ask you about it.”

“Sire, they were sent at the hour promised.”

“Well?”

“Well, sire, the colored lamps, the fireworks, the musicians, and the
cooks, have swallowed up four millions in eight days.”

“Entirely?”

“To the last penny. Every time your majesty directed the banks of the
grand canal to be illuminated, as much oil was consumed as there was water
in the basins.”

“Well, well, M. Colbert; the fact is, then, you have no more money?”

“I have no more, sire, but M. Fouquet has,” Colbert replied, his face
darkening with a sinister expression of pleasure.

“What do you mean?” inquired Louis.

“We have already made M. Fouquet advance six millions. He has given them
with too much grace not to have others still to give, if they are
required, which is the case at the present moment. It is necessary,
therefore, that he should comply.”

The king frowned. “M. Colbert,” said he, accentuating the financier’s
name, “that is not the way I understood the matter; I do not wish to make
use, against any of my servants, of a means of pressure which may oppress
him and fetter his services. In eight days M. Fouquet has furnished six
millions; that is a good round sum.”

Colbert turned pale. “And yet,” he said, “your majesty did not use this
language some time ago, when the news about Belle-Isle arrived, for
instance.”

“You are right, M. Colbert.”

“Nothing, however, has changed since then; on the contrary, indeed.”

“In my thoughts, monsieur, everything has changed.”

“Does your majesty then no longer believe the disloyal attempt?”

“My affairs concern myself alone, monsieur; and I have already told you I
transact them without interference.”

“Then, I perceive,” said Colbert, trembling with anger and fear, “that I
have had the misfortune to fall into disgrace with your majesty.”

“Not at all; you are, on the contrary, most agreeable to me.”

“Yet, sire,” said the minister, with a certain affected bluntness, so
successful when it was a question of flattering Louis’s self-esteem, “what
use is there in being agreeable to your majesty, if one can no longer be
of any use?”

“I reserve your services for a better occasion; and believe me, they will
only be the better appreciated.”

“Your majesty’s plan, then, in this affair, is—”

“You want money, M. Colbert?”

“Seven hundred thousand francs, sire.”

“You will take them from my private treasure.” Colbert bowed. “And,” added
Louis, “as it seems a difficult matter for you, notwithstanding your
economy, to defray, with so limited a sum, the expenses which I intend to
incur, I will at once sign an order for three millions.”

The king took a pen and signed an order immediately, then handed it to
Colbert. “Be satisfied, M. Colbert, the plan I have adopted is one worthy
of a king,” said Louis XIV., who pronounced these words with all the
majesty he knew how to assume in such circumstances; and dismissed Colbert
for the purpose of giving an audience to his tailors.

The order issued by the king was known throughout the whole of
Fontainebleau; it was already known, too, that the king was trying on his
costume, and that the ballet would be danced in the evening. The news
circulated with the rapidity of lightning; during its progress it kindled
every variety of coquetry, desire, and wild ambition. At the same moment,
as if by enchantment, every one who knew how to hold a needle, every one
who could distinguish a coat from a pair of trousers, was summoned to the
assistance of those who had received invitations. The king had completed
his toilette by nine o’clock; he appeared in an open carriage decorated
with branches of trees and flowers. The queens had taken their seats upon
a magnificent dias or platform, erected upon the borders of the lake, in a
theater of wonderful elegance of construction. In the space of five hours
the carpenters had put together all the different parts connected with the
building; the upholsterers had laid down the carpets, erected the seats;
and, as if at the wave of an enchanter’s wand, a thousand arms, aiding,
instead of interfering with each other, had constructed the building,
amidst the sound of music; whilst, at the same time, other workmen
illuminated the theater and the shores of the lake with an incalculable
number of lamps. As the heavens, set with stars, were perfectly unclouded,
as not even a breath of air could be heard in the woods, and as if Nature
itself had yielded complacently to the king’s fancies, the back of the
theater had been left open; so that, behind the foreground of the scenes,
could be seen as a background the beautiful sky, glittering with stars;
the sheet of water, illuminated by the lights which were reflected in it;
and the bluish outline of the grand masses of woods, with their rounded
tops. When the king made his appearance, the theater was full, and
presented to the view one vast group, dazzling with gold and precious
stones; in which, however, at the first glance, no single face could be
distinguished. By degrees, as the sight became accustomed to so much
brilliancy, the rarest beauties appeared to the view, as in the evening
sky the stars appear one by one to him who closes his eyes and then opens
them again.

The theater represented a grove of trees; a few fauns lifting up their
cloven feet were jumping about; a dryad made her appearance on the scene,
and was immediately pursued by them; others gathered round her for her
defense, and they quarrelled as they danced. Suddenly, for the purpose of
restoring peace and order, Spring, accompanied by his whole court, made
his appearance. The Elements, subaltern powers of mythology, together with
their attributes, hastened to follow their gracious sovereign. The
Seasons, allies of Spring, followed him closely, to form a quadrille,
which, after many words of more or less flattering import, was the
commencement of the dance. The music, hautboys, flutes, and viols, was
delightfully descriptive of rural delights. The king had already made his
appearance, amid thunders of applause. He was dressed in a tunic of
flowers, which set off his graceful and well-formed figure to advantage.
His legs, the best-shaped at court, were displayed to great advantage in
flesh-colored silken hose, of silk so fine and so transparent that it
seemed almost like flesh itself. The most beautiful pale-lilac satin
shoes, with bows of flowers and leaves, imprisoned his small feet. The
bust of the figure was in harmonious keeping with the base; Louis’s waving
hair floated on his shoulders, the freshness of his complexion was
enhanced by the brilliancy of his beautiful blue eyes, which softly
kindled all hearts; a mouth with tempting lips, which deigned to open in
smiles. Such was the prince of that period: justly that evening styled
“The King of all the Loves.” There was something in his carriage which
resembled the buoyant movements of an immortal, and he did not dance so
much as seem to soar along. His entrance produced, therefore, the most
brilliant effect. Suddenly the Comte de Saint-Aignan was observed
endeavoring to approach either the king or Madame.

The princess—who was robed in a long dress, diaphanous and light as
the finest network tissue from the hands of skillful Mechlin workers, one
knee occasionally revealed beneath the folds of the tunic, and her little
feet encased in silken slippers decked with pearls—advanced radiant
with beauty, accompanied by her cortege of Bacchantes, and had
already reached the spot assigned to her in the dance. The applause
continued so long that the comte had ample leisure to join the king.

“What is the matter, Saint-Aignan?” said Spring.

“Nothing whatever,” replied the courtier, as pale as death; “but your
majesty has not thought of Fruits.”

“Yes; it is suppressed.”

“Far from it, sire; your majesty having given no directions about it, the
musicians have retained it.”

“How excessively annoying,” said the king. “This figure cannot be
performed, since M. de Guiche is absent. It must be suppressed.”

“Ah, sire, a quarter of an hour’s music without any dancing will produce
an effect so chilling as to ruin the success of the ballet.”

“But, come, since—”

“Oh, sire, that is not the greatest misfortune; for, after all, the
orchestra could still just as well cut it out, if it were necessary; but—”

“But what?”

“Why, M. de Guiche is here.”

“Here?” replied the king, frowning, “here? Are you sure?”

“Yes, sire; and ready dressed for the ballet.”

The king felt himself color deeply, and said, “You are probably mistaken.”

“So little is that the case, sire, that if your majesty will look to the
right, you will see that the comte is in waiting.”

Louis turned hastily towards the side, and in fact, on his right,
brilliant in his character of Autumn, De Guiche awaited until the king
should look at him, in order that he might address him. To give an idea of
the stupefaction of the king, and that of Monsieur, who was moving about
restlessly in his box,—to describe also the agitated movement of the
heads in the theater, and the strange emotion of Madame, at the sight of
her partner,—is a task we must leave to abler hands. The king stood
almost gaping with astonishment as he looked at the comte, who, bowing
lowly, approached Louis with the profoundest respect.

“Sire,” he said, “your majesty’s most devoted servant approaches to
perform a service on this occasion with similar zeal that he has already
shown on the field of battle. Your majesty, in omitting the dance of the
Fruits, would be losing the most beautiful scene in the ballet. I did not
wish to be the substance of so dark a shadow to your majesty’s elegance,
skill, and graceful invention; and I have left my tenants in order to
place my services at your majesty’s commands.”

Every word fell distinctly, in perfect harmony and eloquence, upon Louis
XIV.‘s ears. Their flattery pleased, as much as De Guiche’s courage had
astonished him, and he simply replied: “I did not tell you to return,
comte.”

“Certainly not, sire; but your majesty did not tell me to remain.”

The king perceived that time was passing away, that if this strange scene
were prolonged it would complicate everything, and that a single cloud
upon the picture would eventually spoil the whole. Besides, the king’s
heart was filled with two or three new ideas; he had just derived fresh
inspiration from the eloquent glances of Madame. Her look had said to him:
“Since they are jealous of you, divide their suspicions, for the man who
distrusts two rivals does not object to either in particular.” So that
Madame, by this clever diversion, decided him. The king smiled upon De
Guiche, who did not comprehend a word of Madame’s dumb language, but he
remarked that she pretended not to look at him, and he attributed the
pardon which had been conferred upon him to the princess’s kindness of
heart. The king seemed only pleased with every one present. Monsieur was
the only one who did not understand anything about the matter. The ballet
began; the effect was more than beautiful. When the music, by its bursts
of melody, carried away these illustrious dancers, when the simple,
untutored pantomime of that period, only the more natural on account of
the very indifferent acting of the august actors, had reached its
culminating point of triumph, the theater shook with tumultuous applause.

De Guiche shone like a sun, but like a courtly sun, that is resigned to
fill a subordinate part. Disdainful of a success of which Madame showed no
acknowledgement, he thought of nothing but boldly regaining the marked
preference of the princess. She, however, did not bestow a single glance
upon him. By degrees all his happiness, all his brilliancy, subsided into
regret and uneasiness; so that his limbs lost their power, his arms hung
heavily by his sides, and his head drooped as though he was stupefied. The
king, who had from this moment become in reality the principal dancer in
the quadrille, cast a look upon his vanquished rival. De Guiche soon
ceased to sustain even the character of the courtier; without applause, he
danced indifferently, and very soon could not dance at all, by which
accident the triumph of the king and of Madame was assured.

Chapter XL: The Nymphs of the Park of Fontainebleau.

The king remained for a moment to enjoy a triumph as complete as it could
possibly be. He then turned towards Madame, for the purpose of admiring
her also a little in her turn. Young persons love with more vivacity,
perhaps with greater ardor and deeper passion, than others more advanced
in years; but all the other feelings are at the same time developed in
proportion to their youth and vigor: so that vanity being with them almost
always the equivalent of love, the latter feeling, according to the laws
of equipoise, never attains that degree of perfection which it acquires in
men and women from thirty to five and thirty years of age. Louis thought
of Madame, but only after he had studiously thought of himself; and Madame
carefully thought of herself, without bestowing a single thought upon the
king. The victim, however, of all these royal affections and affectations,
was poor De Guiche. Every one could observe his agitation and prostration—a
prostration which was, indeed, the more remarkable since people were not
accustomed to see him with his arms hanging listlessly by his side, his
head bewildered, and his eyes with all their bright intelligence bedimmed.
It rarely happened that any uneasiness was excited on his account,
whenever a question of elegance or taste was under discussion; and De
Guiche’s defeat was accordingly attributed by the greater number present
to his courtier-like tact and ability. But there were others—keen-sighted
observers are always to be met with at court—who remarked his
paleness and his altered looks; which he could neither feign nor conceal,
and their conclusion was that De Guiche was not acting the part of a
flatterer. All these sufferings, successes, and remarks were blended,
confounded, and lost in the uproar of applause. When, however, the queens
expressed their satisfaction and the spectators their enthusiasm, when the
king had retired to his dressing-room to change his costume, and whilst
Monsieur, dressed as a woman, as he delighted to be, was in his turn
dancing about, De Guiche, who had now recovered himself, approached
Madame, who, seated at the back of the theater, was waiting for the second
part, and had quitted the others for the purpose of creating a sort of
solitude for herself in the midst of the crowd, to meditate, as it were,
beforehand, upon chorographic effects; and it will be perfectly understood
that, absorbed in deep meditation, she did not see, or rather pretended
not to notice, anything that was passing around her. De Guiche, observing
that she was alone, near a thicket constructed of painted cloth,
approached her. Two of her maids of honor, dressed as hamadryads, seeing
De Guiche advance, drew back out of respect., whereupon De Guiche
proceeded towards the middle of the circle and saluted her royal highness;
but, whether she did or did not observe his salutations, the princess did
not even turn her head. A cold shiver passed through poor De Guiche; he
was unprepared for such utter indifference, for he had neither seen nor
been told of anything that had taken place, and consequently could guess
nothing. Remarking, therefore, that his obeisance obtained him no
acknowledgement, he advanced one step further, and in a voice which he
tried, though vainly, to render calm, said: “I have the honor to present
my most humble respects to your royal highness.”

Upon this Madame deigned to turn her eyes languishingly towards the comte,
observing. “Ah! M. de Guiche, is that you? good day!”

The comte’s patience almost forsook him, as he continued,—“Your
royal highness danced just now most charmingly.”

“Do you think so?” she replied with indifference.

“Yes; the character which your royal highness assumed is in perfect
harmony with your own.”

Madame again turned round, and, looking De Guiche full in the face with a
bright and steady gaze, said,—“Why so?”

“Oh! there can be no doubt of it.”

“Explain yourself?”

“You represented a divinity, beautiful, disdainful, inconstant.”

“You mean Pomona, comte?”

“I allude to the goddess.”

Madame remained silent for a moment, with her lips compressed, and then
observed,—“But, comte, you, too, are an excellent dancer.”

“Nay, Madame, I am only one of those who are never noticed, or who are
soon forgotten if they ever happen to be noticed.”

With this remark, accompanied by one of those deep sighs which affect the
remotest fibers of one’s being, his heart burdened with sorrow and
throbbing fast, his head on fire, and his gaze wandering, he bowed
breathlessly, and withdrew behind the thicket. The only reply Madame
condescended to make was by slightly raising her shoulders, and, as her
ladies of honor had discreetly retired while the conversation lasted, she
recalled them by a look. The ladies were Mademoiselle de Tonnay-Charente
and Mademoiselle de Montalais.

“Did you hear what the Comte de Guiche said?” the princess inquired.

“No.”

“It really is very singular,” she continued, in a compassionate tone, “how
exile has affected poor M. de Guiche’s wit.” And then, in a louder voice,
fearful lest her unhappy victim might lose a syllable, she said,—“In
the first place he danced badly, and afterwards his remarks were very
silly.”

She then rose, humming the air to which she was presently going to dance.
De Guiche had overheard everything. The arrow pierced his heart and
wounded him mortally. Then, at the risk of interrupting the progress of
the fete by his annoyance, he fled from the scene, tearing his
beautiful costume of Autumn in pieces, and scattering, as he went along,
the branches of vines, mulberry and almond trees, with all the other
artificial attributes of his assumed divinity. A quarter of an hour
afterwards he returned to the theater; but it will be readily believed
that it was only a powerful effort of reason over his great excitement
that enabled him to go back; or perhaps, for love is thus strangely
constituted, he found it impossible even to remain much longer separated
from the presence of one who had broken his heart. Madame was finishing
her figure. She saw, but did not look at De Guiche, who, irritated and
revengeful, turned his back upon her as she passed him, escorted by her
nymphs, and followed by a hundred flatterers. During this time, at the
other end of the theater, near the lake, a young woman was seated, with
her eyes fixed upon one of the windows of the theater, from which were
issuing streams of light—the window in question being that of the
royal box. As De Guiche quitted the theater for the purpose of getting
into the fresh air he so much needed, he passed close to this figure and
saluted her. When she perceived the young man, she rose, like a woman
surprised in the midst of ideas she was desirous of concealing from
herself. De Guiche stopped as he recognized her, and said hurriedly,—“Good
evening, Mademoiselle de la Valliere; I am indeed fortunate in meeting
you.”

“I, also, M. de Guiche, am glad of this accidental meeting,” said the
young girl, as she was about to withdraw.

“Pray do not leave me,” said De Guiche, stretching out his hand towards
her, “for you would be contradicting the kind words you have just
pronounced. Remain, I implore you: the evening is most lovely. You wish to
escape from the merry tumult, and prefer your own society. Well, I can
understand it; all women who are possessed of any feeling do, and one
never finds them dull or lonely when removed from the giddy vortex of
these exciting amusements. Oh! Heaven!” he exclaimed, suddenly.

“Will you allow me, M. de Guiche, to return you the thanks I had proposed
to offer you on the very first opportunity? It is to your recommendation,
I am aware, that I owe my admission among the number of Madame’s maids of
honor.”

“Indeed! Ah! I remember now, and I congratulate myself. Do you love any
one?”

“There cannot be a doubt he received you kindly, for, in fact, you
returned without his permission.”

“Quite true, and I believe you are right. But have you not seen M. de
Bragelonne here?”

La Valliere started at the name. “Why do you ask?” she inquired.

“Have I offended you again?” said De Guiche. “In that case I am indeed
unhappy, and greatly to be pitied.”

“Yes, very unhappy, and very much to be pitied, Monsieur de Guiche, for
you seem to be suffering terribly.”

“Oh! mademoiselle, why have I not a devoted sister, or a true friend, such
as yourself?”

“You have friends, Monsieur de Guiche, and the Vicomte de Bragelonne, of
whom you spoke just now, is, I believe, one of the most devoted.”

“Yes, yes, you are right, he is one of my best friends. Farewell,
Mademoiselle de la Valliere, farewell.” And he fled, like one possessed,
along the banks of the lake. His dark shadow glided, lengthening as it
disappeared, among the illumined yews and glittering undulations of the
water. La Valliere looked after him, saying,—“Yes, yes, he, too, is
suffering, and I begin to understand why.”

She had hardly finished when her companions, Mademoiselle de Montalais and
Mademoiselle de Tonnay-Charente, ran forward. They were released from
their attendance, and had changed their costumes of nymphs; delighted with
the beautiful night, and the success of the evening, they returned to look
after their companion.

“What, already here!” they said to her. “We thought we should be first at
the rendezvous.”

“I have been here this quarter of an hour,” replied La Valliere.

“Did not the dancing amuse you?”

“No.”

“But surely the enchanting spectacle?”

“No more than the dancing. As far as beauty is concerned, I much prefer
that which these dark woods present, in whose depths can be seen, now in
one direction and again in another, a light passing by, as though it were
an eye, in color like a midnight rainbow, sometimes open, at others
closed.”

“La Valliere is quite a poetess,” said Tonnay-Charente.

“In other words,” said Montalais, “she is insupportable. Whenever there is
a question of laughing a little or of amusing ourselves, La Valliere
begins to cry; whenever we girls have reason to cry, because, perhaps, we
have mislaid our dresses, or because our vanity as been wounded, or our
costume fails to produce an effect, La Valliere laughs.”

“As far as I am concerned, that is not my character,” said Mademoiselle de
Tonnay-Charente. “I am a woman; and there are few like me; whoever loves
me, flatters me; whoever flatters me, pleases me; and whoever pleases—”

“Well!” said Montalais, “you do not finish.”

“It is too difficult,” replied Mademoiselle de Tonnay-Charente, laughing
loudly. “Do you, who are so clever, finish for me.”

“And you, Louise?” said Montalais, “does any one please you?”

“That is a matter that concerns no one but myself,” replied the young
girl, rising from the mossy bank on which she had been reclining during
the whole time the ballet lasted. “Now, mesdemoiselles, we have agreed to
amuse ourselves to-night without any one to overlook us, and without any
escort. We are three in number, we like one another, and the night is
lovely. Look yonder, do you not see the moon slowly rising, silvering the
topmost branches of the chestnuts and the oaks. Oh, beautiful walk! sweet
liberty! exquisite soft turf of the woods, the happiness which your
friendship confers upon me! let us walk arm in arm towards those large
trees. Out yonder all are at this moment seated at table and fully
occupied, or preparing to adorn themselves for a set and formal promenade;
horses are being saddled, or harnessed to the carriages—the queen’s
mules or Madame’s four white ponies. As for ourselves, we shall soon reach
some retired spot where no eyes can see us and no step follow ours. Do you
not remember, Montalais, the woods of Cheverny and of Chambord, the
innumerable rustling poplars of Blois, where we exchanged our mutual
hopes?”

“And confidences too?”

“Yes.”

“Well,” said Mademoiselle de Tonnay-Charente, “I also think a good deal;
but I take care—”

“To say nothing,” said Montalais, “so that when Mademoiselle de
Tonnay-Charente thinks, Athenais is the only one who knows it.”

“Hush!” said Mademoiselle de Tonnay-Charente, “I hear steps approaching
from this side.”

“Quick, quick, then, among the high reed-grass,” said Montalais; “stoop,
Athenais, you are so tall.”

Mademoiselle de Tonnay-Charente stooped as she was told, and, almost at
the same moment, they saw two gentlemen approaching, their heads bent
down, walking arm in arm, on the fine gravel walk running parallel with
the bank. The young girls had, indeed, made themselves small—indeed
invisible.

“It is Monsieur de Guiche,” whispered Montalais in Mademoiselle de
Tonnay-Charente’s ear.

“It is Monsieur de Bragelonne,” whispered the latter to La Valliere.

The two young men approached still closer, conversing in animated tones.
“She was here just now,” said the count. “If I had only seen her, I should
have declared it to be a vision, but I spoke to her.”

“You are positive, then?”

“Yes; but perhaps I frightened her.”

“In what way?”

“Oh! I was still half crazy at you know what; so that she could hardly
have understood what I was saying, and must have grown alarmed.”

“Oh!” said Bragelonne, “do not make yourself uneasy: she is all kindness,
and will excuse you; she is clear-sighted, and will understand.”

“Yes, but if she should have understood, and understood too well, she may
talk.”

“You do not know Louise, count,” said Raoul. “Louise possesses every
virtue, and has not a single fault.” And the two young men passed on, and,
as they proceeded, their voices were soon lost in the distance.

“How is it, La Valliere,” said Mademoiselle de Tonnay-Charente, “that the
Vicomte de Bragelonne spoke of you as Louise?”

“Eh! Why the king? and what has the king to do with it?” exclaimed Aure,
sharply. “Good gracious! has the king any right to interfere in matters of
that kind? Politics are politics, as M. de Mazarin used to say; but love
is love. If, therefore, you love M. de Bragelonne, marry him. I
give my consent.”

Athenais began to laugh.

“Oh! I am speaking seriously,” replied Montalais, “and my opinion in this
case is quite as good as the king’s, I suppose; is it not, Louise?”

“Come,” said La Valliere, “these gentlemen have passed; let us take
advantage of our being alone to cross the open ground and so take refuge
in the woods.”

“So much the better,” said Athenais, “because I see the torches setting
out from the chateau and the theater, and they seem as if they were
preceding some person of distinction.”

“Let us run, then,” said all three. And, gracefully lifting up the long
skirts of their silk dresses, they lightly ran across the open space
between the lake and the thickest covert of the park. Montalais agile as a
deer, Athenais eager as a young wolf, bounded through the dry grass, and,
now and then, some bold Acteon might, by the aid of the faint light, have
perceived their straight and well-formed limbs somewhat displayed beneath
the heavy folds of their satin petticoats. La Valliere, more refined and
more bashful, allowed her dress to flow around her; retarded also by the
lameness of her foot, it was not long before she called out to her
companions to halt, and, left behind, she obliged them both to wait for
her. At this moment, a man, concealed in a dry ditch planted with young
willow saplings, scrambled quickly up its shelving side, and ran off in
the direction of the chateau. The three young girls, on their side,
reached the outskirts of the park, every path of which they well knew. The
ditches were bordered by high hedges full of flowers, which on that side
protected the foot-passengers from being intruded upon by the horses and
carriages. In fact, the sound of Madame’s and the queen’s carriages could
be heard in the distance upon the hard dry ground of the roads, followed
by the mounted cavaliers. Distant music reached them in response, and when
the soft notes died away, the nightingale, with throat of pride, poured
forth his melodious chants, and his most complicated, learned, and
sweetest compositions to those who had met beneath the thick covert of the
woods. Near the songster, in the dark background of the large trees, could
be seen the glistening eyes of an owl, attracted by the harmony. In this
way the fete of the whole court was a fete also for the
mysterious inhabitants of the forest; for certainly the deer in the brake,
the pheasant on the branch, the fox in its hole, were all listening. One
could realize the life led by this nocturnal and invisible population from
the restless movements that suddenly took place among the leaves. Our
sylvan nymphs uttered a slight cry, but, reassured immediately afterwards,
they laughed, and resumed their walk. In this manner they reached the
royal oak, the venerable relic of a tree which in its prime has listened
to the sighs of Henry II. for the beautiful Diana of Poitiers, and later
still to those of Henry IV. for the lovely Gabrielle d’Estrees. Beneath
this oak the gardeners had piled up the moss and turf in such a manner
that never had a seat more luxuriously rested the wearied limbs of man or
monarch. The trunk, somewhat rough to recline against, was sufficiently
large to accommodate the three young girls, whose voices were lost among
the branches, which stretched upwards to the sky.

Chapter XLI. What Was Said under the Royal Oak.

The softness of the air, the stillness of the foliage, tacitly imposed
upon these young girls an engagement to change immediately their giddy
conversation for one of a more serious character. She, indeed, whose
disposition was the most lively,—Montalais, for instance,—was
the first to yield to the influence; and she began by heaving a deep sigh,
and saying:—“What happiness to be here alone, and at liberty, with
every right to be frank, especially towards one another.”

“Yes,” said Mademoiselle de Tonnay-Charente; “for the court, however
brilliant it may be, has always some falsehood concealed beneath the folds
of its velvet robes, or the glitter of its diamonds.”

“I,” replied La Valliere, “I never tell a falsehood; when I cannot speak
the truth, I remain silent.”

“You will not long remain in favor,” said Montalais; “it is not here as it
was at Blois, where we told the dowager Madame all our little annoyances,
and all our longings. There were certain days when Madame remembered that
she herself had been young, and, on those days, whoever talked with her
found in her a sincere friend. She related to us her flirtations with
Monsieur, and we told her of the flirtations she had had with others, or,
at least, the rumors of them that had spread abroad. Poor woman, so
simple-minded! she laughed at them, as we did. Where is she now?”

“Ah, Montalais,—laughter-loving Montalais!” cried La Valliere; “you
see you are sighing again; the woods inspire you, and you are almost
reasonable this evening.”

“You ought not, either of you,” said Athenais, “to regret the court at
Blois so much, unless you do not feel happy with us. A court is a place
where men and women resort to talk of matters which mothers, guardians,
and especially confessors, severely denounce.”

“Oh, Athenais!” said Louise, blushing.

“Athenais is frank to-night,” said Montalais; “let us avail ourselves of
it.”

“Yes, let us take advantage of it, for this evening I could divulge the
softest secrets of my heart.”

“Ah, if M. Montespan were here!” said Montalais.

“Do you think that I care for M. de Montespan?” murmured the beautiful
young girl.

“He is handsome, I believe?”

“Yes. And that is no small advantage in my eyes.”

“There now, you see—”

“I will go further, and say, that of all the men whom one sees here, he is
the handsomest, and the most—”

“What was that?” said La Valliere, starting suddenly from the mossy bank.

“A deer hurrying by, perhaps.”

“I am only afraid of men,” said Athenais.

“When they do not resemble M. de Montespan.”

“A truce to raillery. M. de Montespan is attentive to me, but that does
not commit me in any way. Is not M. de Guiche here, he who is so devoted
to Madame?”

“Poor fellow!” said La Valliere.

“Why to be pitied? Madame is sufficiently beautiful, and of high enough
rank, I suppose.”

La Valliere shook her head sorrowfully, saying, “When one loves, it is
neither beauty nor rank;—when one loves it should be the heart, or
the eyes only, of him, or of her whom one loves.”

“Noble sentiments,” said Athenais, with an air of protection, but with
indifference.

“Are they not your own?” asked Louise.

“Perfectly so; but to continue: how can one pity a man who bestows his
attentions upon such a woman as Madame? If any disproportion exists, it is
on the count’s side.”

“Oh! no, no,” returned La Valliere; “it is on Madame’s side.”

“Explain yourself.”

“I will. Madame has not even a wish to know what love is. She diverts
herself with the feeling, as children do with fireworks, form which a
spark might set a palace on fire. It makes a display, and that is all she
cares about. Besides, pleasure forms the tissue of which she wishes her
life to be woven. M. de Guiche loves this illustrious personage, but she
will never love him.”

Athenais laughed disdainfully. “Do people really ever love?” she said.
“Where are the noble sentiments you just now uttered? Does not a woman’s
virtue consist in the uncompromising refusal of every intrigue that might
compromise her? A properly regulated woman, endowed with a natural heart,
ought to look at men, make herself loved—adored, even, by them, and
say at the very utmost but once in her life, ‘I begin to think that I
ought not to have been what I am,—I should have detested this one
less than others.’”

“Therefore,” exclaimed La Valliere, “that is what M. de Montespan has to
expect.”

“Certainly; he, as well as every one else. What! have I not said that I
admit he possesses a certain superiority, and would not that be enough? My
dear child, a woman is a queen during the entire period nature permits her
to enjoy sovereign power—from fifteen to thirty-five years of age.
After that, we are free to have a heart, when we only have that left—”

“Oh, oh!” murmured La Valliere.

“Excellent,” cried Montalais; “a very masterly woman; Athenais, you will
make your way in the world.”

“Do you not approve of what I say?”

“Completely,” replied her laughing companion.

“You are not serious, Montalais?” said Louise.

“Yes, yes; I approve everything Athenais has just said; only—”

“Only what?”

“Well, I cannot carry it out. I have the firmest principles; I form
resolutions beside which the laws of the Stadtholder and of the King of
Spain are child’s play; but when the moment arrives to put them into
execution, nothing comes of them.”

“Your courage fails?” said Athenais, scornfully.

“Miserably so.”

“Great weakness of nature,” returned Athenais. “But at least you make a
choice.”

“Why, no. It pleases fate to disappoint me in everything; I dream of
emperors, and I find only—”

“Aure, Aure!” exclaimed La Valliere, “for pity’s sake, do not, for the
pleasure of saying something witty, sacrifice those who love you with such
devoted affection.”

“Oh, I do not trouble myself much about that; those who love me are
sufficiently happy that I do not dismiss them altogether. So much the
worse for myself if I have a weakness for any one, but so much the worse
for others if I revenge myself upon them for it.”

“You are right,” said Athenais, “and, perhaps, you too will reach the
goal. In other words, young ladies, that is termed being a coquette. Men,
who are very silly in most things, are particularly so in confounding,
under the term of coquetry, a woman’s pride, and love of changing her
sentiments as she does her dress. I, for instance, am proud; that is to
say, impregnable. I treat my admirers harshly, but without any pretention
to retain them. Men call me a coquette, because they are vain enough to
think I care for them. Other women—Montalais, for instance—have
allowed themselves to be influenced by flattery; they would be lost were
it not for that most fortunate principle of instinct which urges them to
change suddenly, and punish the man whose devotion they so recently
accepted.”

“A very learned dissertation,” said Montalais, in the tone of thorough
enjoyment.

“It is odious!” murmured Louise.

“Thanks to that sort of coquetry, for, indeed, that is genuine coquetry,”
continued Mademoiselle de Tonnay-Charente; “the lover who, a little while
since, was puffed up with pride, in a minute afterwards is suffering at
every pore of his vanity and self-esteem. He was, perhaps, already
beginning to assume the airs of a conqueror, but now he retreats defeated;
he was about to assume an air of protection towards us, but he is obliged
to prostrate himself once more. The result of all this is, that, instead
of having a husband who is jealous and troublesome, free from restraint in
his conduct towards us, we have a lover always trembling in our presence,
always fascinated by our attractions, always submissive; and for this
simple reason, that he finds the same woman never twice of the same mind.
Be convinced, therefore, of the advantages of coquetry. Possessing that,
one reigns a queen among women in cases where Providence has withheld that
precious faculty of holding one’s heart and mind in check.”

“How clever you are,” said Montalais, “and how well you understand the
duty women owe themselves!”

“I am only settling a case of individual happiness,” said Athenais
modestly; “and defending myself, like all weak, loving dispositions,
against the oppressions of the stronger.”

“La Valliere does not say a word.”

“Does she not approve of what we are saying?”

“Nay; only I do not understand it,” said Louise. “You talk like people not
called upon to live in this world of ours.”

“And very pretty your world is,” said Montalais.

“A world,” returned Athenais, “in which men worship a woman until she has
fallen,—and insult her when she has fallen.”

“Who spoke to you of falling?” said Louise.

“Yours is a new theory, then; will you tell us how you intend to resist
yielding to temptation, if you allow yourself to be hurried away by
feelings of affection?”

“Oh!” exclaimed the young girl, raising towards the dark heavens her
beautiful large eyes filled with tears, “if you did but know what a heart
is, I would explain, and convince you; a loving heart is stronger than all
your coquetry, more powerful than all your pride. A woman is never truly
loved, I believe; a man never loves with idolatry, unless he feels sure he
is loved in return. Let old men, whom we read of in comedies, fancy
themselves adored by coquettes. A young man is conscious of, and knows
them; if he has a fancy, or a strong desire, and an absorbing passion, for
a coquette, he cannot mistake her; a coquette may drive him out of his
senses, but will never make him fall in love. Love, such as I conceive it
to be, is an incessant, complete, and perfect sacrifice; but it is not the
sacrifice of one only of the two persons thus united. It is the perfect
abnegation of two who are desirous of blending their beings into one. If
ever I love, I shall implore my lover to leave me free and pure; I will
tell him, and he will understand, that my heart was torn by my refusal,
and he, in his love for me, aware of the magnitude of my sacrifice,—he,
in his turn, I say, will store his devotion for me,—will respect me,
and will not seek my ruin, to insult me when I shall have fallen, as you
said just now, whilst uttering your blasphemies against love, such as I
understand it. That is my idea of love. And now you will tell me, perhaps,
that my love will despise me; I defy him to do so, unless he be the vilest
of men, and my heart assures me that it is not such a man I would choose.
A look from me will repay him for the sacrifices he makes, or will inspire
him with the virtues which he would never think he possessed.”

“But, Louise,” exclaimed Montalais, “you tell us this, and do not carry it
into practice.”

“What do you mean?”

“You are adored by Raoul de Bragelonne, who worships you on both knees.
The poor fellow is made the victim of your virtue, just as he would be—
nay, more than he would be, even—of my coquetry, or Athenais’s
pride.”

“All this is simply a different shade of coquetry,” said Athenais; “and
Louise, I perceive, is a coquette without knowing it.”

“Oh!” said La Valliere.

“Yes, you may call it instinct, if you please, keenest sensibility,
exquisite refinement of feeling, perpetual play of restrained outbreaks of
affection, which end in smoke. It is very artful too, and very effective.
I should even, now that I reflect upon it, have preferred this system of
tactics to my own pride, for waging war on members of the other sex,
because it offers the advantage sometimes of thoroughly convincing them;
but, at the present moment, without utterly condemning myself, I declare
it to be superior to the non-complex coquetry of Montalais.” And the two
young girls began to laugh.

La Valliere alone preserved silence, and quietly shook her head. Then, a
moment after, she added, “If you were to tell me, in the presence of a
man, but a fourth part of what you have just said, or even if I were
assured that you think it, I should die of shame and grief where I am
now.”

“Very well; die, poor tender little darling,” replied Mademoiselle de
Tonnay-Charente; “for if there are no men here, there are at least two
women, your own friends, who declare you to be attained and convicted of
being a coquette from instinct; in other words, the most dangerous kind of
coquette the world possesses.”

“Oh! mesdemoiselles,” replied La Valliere, blushing, and almost ready to
weep. Her two companions again burst out laughing.

“Very well! I will ask Bragelonne to tell me.”

“Bragelonne?” said Athenais.

“Yes! Bragelonne, who is as courageous as Caesar, and as clever and witty
as M. Fouquet. Poor fellow! for twelve years he has known you, loved you,
and yet—one can hardly believe it—he has never even kissed the
tips of your fingers.”

“Tell us the reason of this cruelty, you who are all heart,” said Athenais
to La Valliere.

“Let me explain it by a single word—virtue. You will perhaps deny
the existence of virtue?”

“Come, Louise, tell us the truth,” said Aure, taking her by the hand.

“What do you wish me to tell you?” cried La Valliere.

“Whatever you like; but it will be useless for you to say anything, for I
persist in my opinion of you. A coquette from instinct; in other words, as
I have already said, and I say it again, the most dangerous of all
coquettes.”

“Oh! no, no; for pity’s sake do not believe that!”

“What! twelve years of extreme severity.”

“How can that be, since twelve years ago I was only five years old? The
frivolity of the child cannot surely be placed to the young girl’s
account.”

“Well! you are now seventeen; three years instead of twelve. During those
three years you have remained constantly and unchangeably cruel. Against
you are arrayed the silent shades of Blois, the meetings when you
diligently conned the stars together, the evening wanderings beneath the
plantain-trees, his impassioned twenty years speaking to your fourteen
summers, the fire of his glances addressed to yourself.”

“Yes, yes; but so it is!”

“Impossible!”

“But why impossible?”

“Tell us something credible and we will believe you.”

“Yet, if you were to suppose one thing.”

“What is that?”

“Suppose that I thought I was in love, and that I am not.”

“What! not in love!”

“Well, then! if I have acted in a different manner to what others do when
they are in love, it is because I do not love; and because my hour has not
yet come.”

“Louise, Louise,” said Montalais, “take care or I will remind you of the
remark you made just now. Raoul is not here; do not overwhelm him while he
is absent; be charitable, and if, on closer inspection, you think you do
not love him, tell him so, poor fellow!” and she began to laugh.

“Louise pitied M. de Guiche just now,” said Athenais; “would it be
possible to detect an explanation of her indifference for the one in this
compassion for the other?”

“Say what you please,” said La Valliere, sadly; “upbraid me as you like,
since you do not understand me.”

“Oh! oh!” replied Montalais, “temper, sorrow, tears; we are jesting,
Louise, and are not, I assure you, quite the monsters you suppose. Look at
the proud Athenais, as she is called; she does not love M. de Montespan,
it is true, but she would be in despair if M. de Montespan did not
continue to love her. Look at me; I laugh at M. Malicorne, but the poor
fellow whom I laugh at knows precisely when he will be permitted to press
his lips upon my hand. And yet the eldest of us is not twenty yet. What a
future before us!”

“Silly, silly girls!” murmured Louise.

“You are quite right,” said Montalais; “and you alone have spoken words of
wisdom.”

“Certainly.”

“I do not dispute it,” replied Athenais. “And so it is clear you do not
love poor M. de Bragelonne?”

“Perhaps she does,” said Montalais; “she is not yet quite certain of it.
But, in any case, listen, Athenais; if M. de Bragelonne is ever free, I
will give you a little friendly advice.”

“What is that?”

“To look at him well before you decide in favor of M. de Montespan.”

“Oh! in that way of considering the subject, M. de Bragelonne is not the
only one whom one could look at with pleasure; M. de Guiche, for instance,
has his value also.”

“He did not distinguish himself this evening,” said Montalais; “and I know
from very good authority that Madame thought him insupportable.”

“M. de Saint-Aignan produced a most brilliant effect, and I am sure that
more than one person who saw him dance this evening will not soon forget
him. Do you not think so, La Valliere?”

“Why do you ask me? I did not see him, nor do I know him.”

“What! you did not see M. de Saint-Aignan? Don’t you know him?”

“No.”

“Come, come, do not affect a virtue more extravagantly excessive than our
vanity!—you have eyes, I suppose?”

“Excellent.”

“Then you must have seen all those who danced this evening.”

“Yes, nearly all.”

“That is a very impertinent ‘nearly all’ for somebody.”

“You must take it for what it is worth.”

“Very well; now, among all those gentlemen whom you saw, which do you
prefer?”

“Yes,” said Montalais, “is it M. de Saint-Aignan, or M. de Guiche, or M.—”

“I prefer no one; I thought them all about the same.”

“Do you mean, then, that among that brilliant assembly, the first court in
the world, no one pleased you?”

“I do not say that.”

“Tell us, then, who your ideal is?”

“It is not an ideal being.”

“He exists, then?”

“In very truth,” exclaimed La Valliere, aroused and excited; “I cannot
understand you at all. What! you who have a heart as I have, eyes as I
have, and yet you speak of M. de Guiche, of M. de Saint-Aignan, when the
king was there.” These words, uttered in a precipitate manner, and in an
agitated, fervid tone of voice, made her two companions, between whom she
was seated, exclaim in a manner that terrified her, “The king!”

La Valliere buried her face in her hands. “Yes,” she murmured; “the king!
the king! Have you ever seen any one to be compared to the king?”

“You were right just now in saying you had excellent eyes, Louise, for you
see a great distance; too far, indeed. Alas! the king is not one upon whom
our poor eyes have a right to hinge themselves.”

“That is too true,” cried La Valliere; “it is not the privilege of all
eyes to gaze upon the sun; but I will look upon him, even were I to be
blinded in doing so.” At this moment, and as though caused by the words
which had just escaped La Valliere’s lips, a rustling of leaves, and of
what sounded like some silken material, was heard behind the adjoining
bushes. The young girls hastily rose, almost terrified out of their
senses. They distinctly saw the leaves move, without being able to see
what it was that stirred them.

“It is a wolf or a wild boar,” cried Montalais; “fly! fly!” The three
girls, in the extremity of terror, fled by the first path that presented
itself, and did not stop until they had reached the verge of the wood.
There, breathless, leaning against each other, feeling their hearts throb
wildly, they endeavored to collect their senses, but could only succeed in
doing so after the lapse of some minutes. Perceiving at last the lights
from the windows of the chateau, they decided to walk towards them. La
Valliere was exhausted with fatigue, and Aure and Athenais were obliged to
support her.

“We have escaped well,” said Montalais.

“I am greatly afraid,” said La Valliere, “that it was something worse than
a wolf. For my part, and I speak as I think, I should have preferred to
have run the risk of being devoured alive by some wild animal than to have
been listened to and overheard. Fool, fool that I am! How could I have
thought, how could I have said what I did?” And saying this her head bowed
like the water tossed plume of a bulrush; she felt her limbs fail, and her
strength abandoning her, and, gliding almost inanimate from the arms of
her companions, sank down upon the turf.

Chapter XLII. The King’s Uneasiness.

Let us leave poor La Valliere, who had fainted in the arms of her two
companions, and return to the precincts of the royal oak. The young girls
had hardly run twenty paces, when the sound which had so much alarmed them
was renewed among the branches. A man’s figure might indistinctly be
perceived, and putting the branches of the bushes aside, he appeared upon
the verge of the wood, and perceiving that the place was empty, burst out
into a peal of laughter. It is almost superfluous to add that the form in
question was that of a young and handsome cavalier, who immediately made a
sign to another, who thereupon made his appearance.

“It seems so,” said the king, “and you can show yourself without fear.”

“Take care, sire, you will be recognized.”

“But I tell you they are flown.”

“This is a most fortunate meeting, sire; and, if I dared offer an opinion
to your majesty, we ought to follow them.”

“They are far enough away by this time.”

“They would quickly allow themselves to be overtaken, especially if they
knew who were following them.”

“What do you mean by that, coxcomb that you are?”

“Why, one of them seems to have taken a fancy to me, and another compared
you to the sun.”

“The greater reason why we should not show ourselves, Saint-Aignan. The
sun never shows itself in the night-time.”

“Upon my word, sire, your majesty seems to have very little curiosity. In
your place, I should like to know who are the two nymphs, the two dryads,
the two hamadryads, who have so good an opinion of us.”

“I shall know them again very well, I assure you, without running after
them.”

“By what means?”

“By their voices, of course. They belong to the court, and the one who
spoke of me had a remarkably sweet voice.”

“Oh! no, indeed. How is it possible to forget such beautiful eyes as
Mademoiselle de la Valliere has?”

“Yet the other one has a beautiful voice.”

“Which one?”

“The lady who has fallen in love with the sun.”

“M. de Saint-Aignan!”

“Forgive me, sire.”

“Well, I am not sorry you should believe me to be an admirer of sweet
voices as well as of beautiful eyes. I know you to be a terrible talker,
and to-morrow I shall have to pay for the confidence I have shown you.”

“What do you mean, sire?”

“That to-morrow every one will know that I have designs upon this little
La Valliere; but be careful, Saint-Aignan, I have confided my secret to no
one but you, and if any one should speak to me about it, I shall know who
has betrayed my secret.”

“You are angry, sire.”

“No; but you understand I do not wish to compromise the poor girl.”

“Do not be afraid, sire.”

“You promise me, then?”

“I give you my word of honor.”

“Excellent,” thought the king, laughing to himself; “now every one will
know to-morrow that I have been running about after La Valliere to-night.”

Then, endeavoring to see where he was, he said: “Why we have lost
ourselves.”

“Not quite so bad as that, sire.”

“Where does that gate lead to?”

“To Rond-Point, sire.”

“Where were we going when we heard the sound of women’s voices?”

“Yes, sire, and the termination of a conversation in which I had the honor
of hearing my own name pronounced by the side of your majesty’s.”

“You return to that subject too frequently, Saint-Aignan.”

“Your majesty will forgive me, but I am delighted to know that a woman
exists whose thoughts are occupied about me, without my knowledge, and
without my having done anything to deserve it. Your majesty cannot
comprehend this satisfaction, for your rank and merit attract attention,
and compel regard.”

“No, no, Saint-Aignan, believe me or not, as you like,” said the king,
leaning familiarly upon Saint-Aignan’s arm and taking the path he thought
would lead them to the chateau; “but this candid confession, this
perfectly disinterested preference of one who will, perhaps, never attract
my attention—in one word, the mystery of this adventure excites me,
and the truth is, that if I were not so taken with La Valliere—”

“Do not let that interfere with your majesty’s intentions: you have time
enough before you.”

“What do you mean?”

“La Valliere is said to be very strict in her ideas.”

“You excite my curiosity and I am anxious to see her again. Come, let us
walk on.”

The king spoke untruly, for nothing, on the contrary, could make him less
anxious, but he had a part to play, and so he walked on hurriedly.
Saint-Aignan followed him at a short distance. Suddenly the king stopped;
the courtier followed his example.

“Saint-Aignan,” he said, “do you not hear some one moaning?”

“Yes, sire, and weeping, too, it seems.”

“It is in this direction,” said the king. “It sounds like the tears and
sobs of a woman.”

“Run,” said the king; and, following a by-path, they ran across the grass.
As they approached, the cries were more distinctly heard.

“Help, help,” exclaimed two voices. The king and his companion redoubled
their speed, and, as they approached nearer, the sighs they had heard were
changed into loud sobs. The cry of “Help! help!” was again repeated; at
the sound of which, the king and Saint-Aignan increased the rapidity of
their pace. Suddenly at the other side of a ditch, under the branches of a
willow, they perceived a woman on her knees, holding another in her arms
who seemed to have fainted. A few paces from them, a third, standing in
the middle of the path, was calling for assistance. Perceiving the two
gentlemen, whose rank she could not tell, her cries for assistance were
redoubled. The king, who was in advance of his companion, leaped across
the ditch, and reached the group at the very moment when, from the end of
the path which led to the chateau, a dozen persons were approaching, who
had been drawn to the spot by the same cries that had attracted the
attention of the king and M. de Saint-Aignan.

“What is the matter, young ladies?” said Louis.

“The king!” exclaimed Mademoiselle de Montalais, in her astonishment,
letting La Valliere’s head fall upon the ground.

“Yes, it is the king; but that is no reason why you should abandon your
companion. Who is she?”

“It is Mademoiselle de la Valliere, sire.”

“Mademoiselle de la Valliere!”

“Yes, sire, she has just fainted.”

“Poor child!” said the king. “Quick, quick, fetch a surgeon.” But however
great the anxiety with which the king had pronounced these words may have
seemed to others, he had not so carefully schooled himself but that they
appeared, as well as the gesture which accompanied them, somewhat cold to
Saint-Aignan, to whom the king had confided the sudden love with which she
had inspired him.

“Saint-Aignan,” continued the king, “watch over Mademoiselle de la
Valliere, I beg. Send for a surgeon. I will hasten forward and inform
Madame of the accident which has befallen one of her maids of honor.” And,
in fact, while M. de Saint-Aignan was busily engaged in making
preparations for carrying Mademoiselle de la Valliere to the chateau, the
king hurried forward, happy to have an opportunity of approaching Madame,
and of speaking to her under a colorable pretext. Fortunately, a carriage
was passing; the coachman was told to stop, and the persons who were
inside, having been informed of the accident, eagerly gave up their seats
to Mademoiselle de la Valliere. The current of fresh air produced by the
rapid motion of the carriage soon recalled her to her senses. Having
reached the chateau, she was able, though very weak, to alight from the
carriage, and, with the assistance of Athenais and of Montalais, to reach
the inner apartments. They made her sit down in one of the rooms of the
ground floor. After a while, as the accident had not produced much effect
upon those who had been walking, the promenade was resumed. During this
time, the king had found Madame beneath a tree with overhanging branches,
and had seated himself by her side.

“Take care, sire,” said Henrietta to him, in a low tone, “you do not show
yourself as indifferent as you ought to be.”

“Alas!” replied the king, in the same tone, “I much fear we have entered
into an agreement above our strength to keep.” He then added aloud, “You
have heard of the accident, I suppose?”

“What accident?”

“Oh! in seeing you I forgot I hurried here expressly to tell you of it. I
am, however, painfully affected by it; one of your maids of honor,
Mademoiselle de la Valliere, has just fainted.”

“Indeed! poor girl,” said the princess, quietly, “what was the cause of
it?”

She then added in an undertone, “You forget, sire, that you wish others to
believe in your passion for this girl, and yet you remain here while she
is almost dying, perhaps, elsewhere.”

“Ah! Madame,” said the king, sighing, “how much more perfect you are in
your part than I am, and how actively you think of everything.”

He then rose, saying loud enough for every one to hear him, “Permit me to
leave you, Madame; my uneasiness is very great, and I wish to be quite
certain, myself, that proper attention has been given to Mademoiselle de
la Valliere.” And the king left again to return to La Valliere, while
those who had been present commented upon the king’s remark:—“My
uneasiness is very great.”

Chapter XLIII. The King’s Secret.

On his way Louis met the Comte de Saint-Aignan. “Well, Saint-Aignan,” he
inquired, with affected interest, “how is the invalid.”

“Really, sire,” stammered Saint-Aignan, “to my shame, I confess I do not
know.”

“What! you do not know?” said the king, pretending to take in a serious
manner this want of attention for the object of his predilection.

“Will your majesty pardon me; but I have just met one of our three
loquacious wood-nymphs, and I confess that my attention has been taken
away from other matters.”

“Ah!” said the king, eagerly, “you have found, then—”

“The one who deigned to speak of me in such advantageous terms; and,
having found mine, I was searching for yours, sire, when I had the
happiness to meet your majesty.”

“Very well; but Mademoiselle de la Valliere before everything else,” said
the king, faithful to the character he had assumed.

“It ought to be a secret, and a very great one, even; but your majesty is
well aware that no secret can possibly exist for you.”

“Well, what is her name?”

“Mademoiselle de Tonnay-Charente.”

“Is she pretty?”

“Exceedingly, sire; and I recognized the voice which pronounced my name in
such tender accents. I accosted her, questioned her as well as I was able
to do, in the midst of the crowd; and she told me, without suspecting
anything, that a little while ago she was under the great oak, with her
two friends, when the sound of a wolf or a robber had terrified them, and
made them run away.”

“But,” inquired the king, anxiously, “what are the names of these two
friends?”

“Because I am an egotist and a fool. My surprise was so great at such a
conquest, and at so fortunate a discovery, that I went no further in my
inquiries. Besides, I did not think that your majesty would attach any
very great importance to what you heard, knowing how much your attention
was taken up by Mademoiselle de la Valliere; and then, Mademoiselle de
Tonnay-Charente left me precipitately, to return to Mademoiselle de la
Valliere.”

“Let us hope, then, that I shall be as fortunate as yourself. Come,
Saint-Aignan.”

“Your majesty is ambitions, I perceive, and does not wish to allow any
conquest to escape you. Well, I assure you that I will conscientiously set
about my inquiries; and, moreover, from one or the other of those Three
Graces we shall learn the names of the rest, and by the names their
secrets.”

“I, too,” said the king, “only require to hear her voice to know it again.
Come, let us say no more about it, but show me where poor La Valliere is.”

“Well,” thought Saint-Aignan, “the king’s regard is beginning to display
itself, and for that girl too. It is extraordinary; I should never have
believed it.” And with this thought passing through his mind, he showed
the king the room to which La Valliere had been carried; the king entered,
followed by Saint-Aignan. In a low chamber, near a large window looking
out upon the gardens, La Valliere, reclining in a large armchair, was
inhaling deep draughts of the perfumed evening breeze. From the loosened
body of her dress, the lace fell in tumbled folds, mingling with the
tresses of her beautiful fair hair, which lay scattered upon her
shoulders. Her languishing eyes were filled with tears; she seemed as
lifeless as those beautiful visions of our dreams, that pass before the
mental eye of the sleeper, half-opening their wings without moving them,
unclosing their lips without a sound escaping them. The pearl-like pallor
of La Valliere possessed a charm it would be impossible to describe.
Mental and bodily suffering had produced upon her features a soft and
noble expression of grief; from the perfect passiveness of her arms and
bust, she more resembled one whose soul had passed away, than a living
being; she seemed not to hear either of the whisperings which arose from
the court. She seemed to be communing within herself; and her beautiful,
delicate hands trembled from time to time as though at the contact of some
invisible touch. She was so completely absorbed in her reverie, that the
king entered without her perceiving him. At a distance he gazed upon her
lovely face, upon which the moon shed its pure silvery light.

“Good Heavens!” he exclaimed, with a terror he could not control, “she is
dead.”

“No, sire,” said Montalais, in a low voice; “on the contrary, she is
better. Are you not better, Louise?”

But Louise did not answer. “Louise,” continued Montalais, “the king has
deigned to express his uneasiness on your account.”

“The king!” exclaimed Louise, starting up abruptly, as if a stream of fire
had started through her frame to her heart; “the king uneasy about me?”

“Yes,” said Montalais.

“The king is here, then?” said La Valliere, not venturing to look round
her.

“That voice! that voice!” whispered Louis, eagerly, to Saint-Aignan.

“Yes, it is so,” replied Saint-Aignan; “your majesty is right; it is she
who declared her love for the sun.”

“Hush!” said the king. And then approaching La Valliere, he said, “You are
not well, Mademoiselle de la Valliere? Just now, indeed, in the park, I
saw that you had fainted. How were you attacked?”

“Sire,” stammered out the poor child, pale and trembling, “I really do not
know.”

“You have been walking too far,” said the king; “and fatigue, perhaps—”

“No, sire,” said Montalais, eagerly, answering for her friend, “it could
not be from fatigue, for we passed most of the evening seated beneath the
royal oak.”

“Under the royal oak?” returned the king, starting. “I was not deceived;
it is as I thought.” And he directed a look of intelligence at the comte.

“Yes,” said Saint-Aignan, “under the royal oak, with Mademoiselle de
Tonnay-Charente.”

“How do you know that?” inquired Montalais.

“In a very simple way. Mademoiselle de Tonnay-Charente told me so.”

“In that case, she probably told you the cause of Mademoiselle de la
Valliere’s fainting?”

“Why, yes; she told me something about a wolf or a robber. I forget
precisely which.” La Valliere listened, her eyes fixed, her bosom heaving,
as if, gifted with an acuteness of perception, she foresaw a portion of
the truth. Louis imagined this attitude and agitation to be the
consequence of a terror only partially reassured. “Nay, fear nothing,” he
said, with a rising emotion which he could not conceal; “the wolf which
terrified you so much was simply a wolf with two legs.”

“It was a man, then!” said Louise; “it was a man who was listening?”

“Suppose it was so, mademoiselle, what great harm was there in his having
listened? Is it likely that, even in your own opinion, you would have said
anything which could not have been listened to?”

La Valliere wrung her hands, and hid her face in them, as if to hide her
blushes. “In Heaven’s name,” she said, “who was concealed there? Who was
listening?”

The king advanced towards her, to take hold of one of her hands. “It was
I,” he said, bowing with marked respect. “Is it likely I could have
frightened you?” La Valliere uttered a loud cry; for the second time her
strength forsook her; and moaning in utter despair, she again fell
lifeless in her chair. The king had just time to hold out his arm; so that
she was partially supported by him. Mademoiselle de Tonnay-Charente and
Montalais, who stood a few paces from the king and La Valliere, motionless
and almost petrified at the recollection of their conversation with La
Valliere, did not even think of offering their assistance, feeling
restrained by the presence of the king, who, with one knee on the ground,
held La Valliere round the waist with his arm.

“You heard, sire!” murmured Athenais. But the king did not reply; he
remained with his eyes fixed upon La Valliere’s half-closed eyes, and held
her quiescent hand in his own.

“Of course,” replied Saint-Aignan, who, on his side, hoping that
Mademoiselle de Tonnay-Charente, too, would faint, advancing towards her,
holding his arms extended,—“of course; we did not even lose a single
word.” But the haughty Athenais was not a woman to faint easily; she
darted a terrible look at Saint-Aignan, and fled. Montalais, with more
courage, advanced hurriedly towards Louise, and received her from the
king’s hands, who was already fast losing his presence of mind, as he felt
his face covered by the perfumed tresses of the seemingly dying girl.
“Excellent,” whispered Saint-Aignan. “This is indeed an adventure; and it
will be my own fault if I am not the first to relate it.”

The king approached him, and, with a trembling voice and a passionate
gesture, said, “Not a syllable, comte.”

The poor king forgot that, only an hour before, he had given him a similar
recommendation, but with the very opposite intention; namely, that the
comte should be indiscreet. It followed, as a matter of course, that he
latter recommendation was quite as unnecessary as the former. Half an hour
afterwards, everybody in Fontainebleau knew that Mademoiselle de la
Valliere had had a conversation under the royal oak with Montalais and
Tonnay-Charente, and that in this conversation she had confessed her
affection for the king. It was known, also, that the king, after having
manifested the uneasiness with which Mademoiselle de la Valliere’s health
had inspired him, had turned pale, and trembled very much as he received
the beautiful girl fainting into his arms; so that it was quite agreed
among the courtiers, that the greatest event of the period had just been
revealed; that his majesty loved Mademoiselle de la Valliere, and that,
consequently, Monsieur could now sleep in perfect tranquillity. It was
this, even, that the queen-mother, as surprised as the others by the
sudden change, hastened to tell the young queen and Philip d’Orleans. Only
she set to work in a different manner, by attacking them in the following
way:—To her daughter-in-law she said, “See, now, Therese, how very
wrong you were to accuse the king; now it is said he is devoted to some
other person; why should there be any greater truth in the report of
to-day than in that of yesterday, or in that of yesterday than in that of
to-day?” To Monsieur, in relating to him the adventure of the royal oak,
she said, “Are you not very absurd in your jealousies, my dear Philip? It
is asserted that the king is madly in love with that little La Valliere.
Say nothing of it to your wife; for the queen will know all about it very
soon.” This latter confidential communication had an immediate result.
Monsieur, who had regained his composure, went triumphantly to look after
his wife, and it was not yet midnight and the fete was to continue
until two in the morning, he offered her his hand for a promenade. At the
end of a few paces, however, the first thing he did was to disobey his
mother’s injunctions.

“Do not tell any one, the queen least of all,” he said mysteriously, “what
people say about the king.”

“What do they say about him?” inquired Madame.

“That my brother has suddenly fallen in love.”

“With whom?”

“With Mademoiselle de la Valliere.”

As it was dark, Madame could smile at her ease.

“Ah!” she said, “and how long is it since this has been the case?”

“For some days, it seems. But that was nothing but nonsense; it is only
this evening that he has revealed his passion.”

“The king shows his good taste,” said Madame; “in my opinion she is a very
charming girl.”

“I verily believe you are jesting.”

“I! in what way?”

“In any case this passion will make some one very happy, even if it be
only La Valliere herself.”

“Really,” continued the princess, “you speak as if you had read into the
inmost recesses of La Valliere’s heart. Who has told you that she agrees
to return the king’s affection?”

“And who has told you that she will not return it?”

“She loves the Vicomte de Bragelonne.”

“You think so?”

“She is even affianced to him.”

“She was so.”

“What do you mean?”

“When they went to ask the king’s permission to arrange the marriage, he
refused his permission.”

“Refused?”

“Yes, although the request was preferred by the Comte de la Fere himself,
for whom the king has the greatest regard, on account of the part he took
in your royal brother’s restoration, and in other events, also, which
happened a long time ago.”

“Well! the poor lovers must wait until the king is pleased to change his
opinion; they are young, and there is time enough.”

“But, dear me,” said Philip, laughing, “I perceive you do not know the
best part of the affair.”

“No!”

“That by which the king was most deeply touched.”

“The king, do you say, has been deeply touched?”

“To the very quick of his heart.”

“But how?—in what manner?—tell me directly.”

“By an adventure, the romance of which cannot be equalled.”

“You know how I love to hear of such adventures, and yet you keep me
waiting,” said the princess, impatiently.

“Well, then—” and Monsieur paused.

“I am listening.”

“Under the royal oak—you know where the royal oak is?”

“What can that matter? Under the royal oak, you were saying?”

“Well! Mademoiselle de la Valliere, fancying herself to be alone with her
two friends, revealed to them her affection for the king.”

“Ah!” said Madame, beginning to be uneasy, “her affection for the king?”

“Yes.”

“When was this?”

“About an hour ago.”

Madame started, and then said, “And no one knew of this affection?”

“No one.”

“Not even his majesty?”

“Not even his majesty. The artful little puss kept her secret strictly to
herself, when suddenly it proved stronger than herself, and so escaped
her.”

“And from whom did you get this absurd tale?”

“Why, as everybody else did, from La Valliere herself, who confessed her
love to Montalais and Tonnay-Charente, who were her companions.”

Madame stopped suddenly, and by a hasty movement let go her husband’s
hand.

“Did you say it was an hour ago she made this confession?” Madame
inquired.

“About that time.”

“Is the king aware of it?”

“Why, that is the very thing which constitutes the perfect romance of the
affair, for the king was behind the royal oak with Saint-Aignan, and heard
the whole of the interesting conversation without losing a single word of
it.”

Madame felt struck to the heart, saying incautiously, “But I have seen the
king since, and he never told me a word about it.”

“Of course,” said Monsieur; “he took care not to speak of it to you
himself, since he recommended every one not to say a word about it.”

“What do you mean?” said Madame, growing angry.

“I mean that they wished to keep you in ignorance of the affair
altogether.”

“But why should they wish to conceal it from me?”

“From the fear that your friendship for the young queen might induce you
to say something about it to her, nothing more.”

Madame hung down her head; her feelings were grievously wounded. She could
not enjoy a moment’s repose until she had met the king. As a king is, most
naturally, the very last person in his kingdom who knows what is said
about him, in the same way that a lover is the only one who is kept in
ignorance of what is said about his mistress, therefore, when the king
perceived Madame, who was looking for him, he approached her in some
perturbation, but still gracious and attentive in his manner. Madame
waited for him to speak about La Valliere first; but as he did not speak
of her, she said, “And the poor girl?”

“What poor girl?” said the king.

“La Valliere. Did you not tell me, sire, that she had fainted?”

“She is still very ill,” said the king, affecting the greatest
indifference.

“But surely that will prejudicially affect the rumor you were going to
spread, sire?”

“What rumor?”

“That your attention was taken up by her.”

“Oh!” said the king, carelessly, “I trust it will be reported all the
same.”

Madame still waited; she wished to know if the king would speak to her of
the adventure of the royal oak. But the king did not say a word about it.
Madame, on her side, did not open her lips about it; so that the king took
leave of her without having reposed the slightest confidence in her.
Hardly had she watched the king move away, than she set out in search of
Saint-Aignan. Saint-Aignan was never very difficult to find; he was like
the smaller vessels that always follow in the wake of, and as tenders to,
the larger ships. Saint-Aignan was the very man whom Madame needed in her
then state of mind. And as for him, he only looked for worthier ears than
others he had found to have an opportunity of recounting the event in all
its details. And so he did not spare Madame a single word of the whole
affair. When he had finished, Madame said to him, “Confess, now, that is
his all a charming invention.”

“Invention, no; a true story, yes.”

“Confess, whether invention or true story, that it was told to you as you
have told it to me, but that you were not there.”

“Upon my honor, Madame, I was there.”

“And you think that these confessions may have made an impression on the
king?”

“Certainly, as those of Mademoiselle de Tonnay-Charente did upon me,”
replied Saint-Aignan; “do not forget, Madame, that Mademoiselle de la
Valliere compared the king to the sun; that was flattering enough.”

“The king does not permit himself to be influenced by such flatteries.”

“Madame, the king is just as much Adonis as Apollo; and I saw plain enough
just now when La Valliere fell into his arms.”

“La Valliere fell into the king’s arms!”

“Oh! it was the most graceful picture possible; just imagine, La Valliere
had fallen back fainting, and—”

“Well! what did you see?—tell me—speak!”

“I saw what ten other people saw at the same time as myself; I saw that
when La Valliere fell into his arms, the king almost fainted himself.”

Madame smothered a subdued cry, the only indication of her smothered
anger.

“Thank you,” she said, laughing in a convulsive manner, “you relate
stories delightfully, M. de Saint-Aignan.” And she hurried away, alone,
and almost suffocated by painful emotion, towards the chateau.

Chapter XLIV. Courses de Nuit.

Monsieur quitted the princess in the best possible humor, and feeling
greatly fatigued, retired to his apartments, leaving every one to finish
the night as he chose. When in his room, Monsieur began to dress for the
night with careful attention, which displayed itself from time to time in
paroxysms of satisfaction. While his attendants were engaged in curling
his hair, he sang the principal airs of the ballet which the violins had
played, and to which the king had danced. He then summoned his tailors,
inspected his costumes for the next day, and, in token of his extreme
satisfaction, distributed various presents among them. As, however, the
Chevalier de Lorraine, who had seen the prince return to the chateau,
entered the room, Monsieur overwhelmed him with kindness. The former,
after having saluted the prince, remained silent for a moment, like a
sharpshooter who deliberates before deciding in what direction he will
renew his fire; then, seeming to make up his mind, he said, “Have you
remarked a very singular coincidence, monseigneur?”

“No; what is it?”

“The bad reception which his majesty, in appearance, gave the Comte de
Guiche.”

“In appearance?”

“Yes, certainly; since, in reality, he has restored him to favor.”

“I did not notice it,” said the prince.

“What, did you not remark, that, instead of ordering him to go away again
into exile, as was natural, he encouraged him in his opposition by
permitting him to resume his place in the ballet?”

“And you think the king was wrong, chevalier?” said the prince.

“Are you not of my opinion, prince?”

“Not altogether so, my dear chevalier; and I think the king was quite
right not to have made a disturbance against a poor fellow whose want of
judgment is more to be complained of than his intention.”

“Really,” said the chevalier, “as far as I am concerned, I confess that
this magnanimity astonishes me to the highest degree.”

“Why so?” inquired Philip.

“Because I should have thought the king had been more jealous,” replied
the chevalier, spitefully. During the last few minutes Monsieur had felt
there was something of an irritating nature concealed under his favorite’s
remarks; this last word, however, ignited the powder.

“Jealous!” exclaimed the prince. “Jealous! what do you mean? Jealous of
what, if you please—or jealous of whom?”

The chevalier perceived that he had allowed an excessively mischievous
remark to escape him, as he was in the habit of doing. He endeavored,
therefore, apparently to recall it while it was still possible to do so.
“Jealous of his authority,” he said, with an assumed frankness; “of what
else would you have the king jealous?”

“Ah!” said the prince, “that’s very proper.”

“Did your royal highness,” continued the chevalier, “solicit dear De
Guiche’s pardon?”

“No, indeed,” said Monsieur. “De Guiche is an excellent fellow, and full
of courage; but as I do not approve of his conduct with Madame, I wish him
neither harm nor good.”

The chevalier had assumed a bitterness with regard to De Guiche, as he had
attempted to do with regard to the king; but he thought he perceived that
the time for indulgence, and even for the utmost indifference, had
arrived, and that, in order to throw some light on the question, it might
be necessary for him to put the lamp, as the saying is, beneath the
husband’s very nose.

“Very well, very well,” said the chevalier to himself, “I must wait for De
Wardes; he will do more in one day than I in a month; for I verily believe
he is even more envious than I. Then, again, it is not De Wardes I require
so much as that some event or another should happen; and in the whole of
this affair I see none. That De Guiche returned after he had been sent
away is certainly serious enough, but all its seriousness disappears when
I learn that De Guiche has returned at the very moment Madame troubles
herself no longer about him. Madame, in fact, is occupied with the king,
that is clear; but she will not be so much longer if, as it is asserted,
the king has ceased to trouble his head about her. The moral of the whole
matter is, to remain perfectly neutral, and await the arrival of some new
caprice and let that decide the whole affair.” And the chevalier thereupon
settled himself resignedly in the armchair in which Monsieur permitted him
to seat himself in his presence, and, having no more spiteful or malicious
remarks to make, the consequence was that De Lorraine’s wit seemed to have
deserted him. Most fortunately Monsieur was in high good-humor, and he had
enough for two, until the time arrived for dismissing his servants and
gentlemen of the chamber, and he passed into his sleeping-apartment. As he
withdrew, he desired the chevalier to present his compliments to Madame,
and say that, as the night was cool, Monsieur, who was afraid of the
toothache, would not venture out again into the park during the remainder
of the evening. The chevalier entered the princess’s apartments at the
very moment she came in herself. He acquitted himself faithfully of the
commission intrusted to him, and, in the first place, remarked all the
indifference and annoyance with which Madame received her husband’s
communication—a circumstance which appeared to him fraught with
something fresh. If Madame had been about to leave her apartments with
that strangeness of manner, he would have followed her; but she was
returning to them; there was nothing to be done, therefore he turned upon
his heel like an unemployed heron, appearing to question earth, air, and
water about it; shook his head, and walked away mechanically in the
direction of the gardens. He had hardly gone a hundred paces when he met
two young men, walking arm in arm, with their heads bent down, and idly
kicking the small stones out of their path as they walked on, plunged in
thought. It was De Guiche and De Bragelonne, the sight of whom, as it
always did, produced upon the chevalier, instinctively, a feeling of
repugnance. He did not, however, the less, on that account, salute them
with a very low bow, which they returned with interest. Then, observing
that the park was nearly deserted, that the illuminations began to burn
out, and that the morning breeze was setting in, he turned to the left,
and entered the chateau again, by one of the smaller courtyards. The
others turned aside to the right, and continued on their way towards the
large park. As the chevalier was ascending the side staircase, which led
to the private entrance, he saw a woman, followed by another, make her
appearance under the arcade which led from the small to the large
courtyard. The two women walked so fast that the rustling of their dresses
could be distinguished through the silence of the night. The style of
their mantles, their graceful figures, a mysterious yet haughty carriage
which distinguished them both, especially the one who walked first, struck
the chevalier.

“I certainly know those two,” he said to himself, pausing upon the top
step of the small staircase. Then, as with the instinct of a bloodhound he
was about to follow them, one of the servants who had been running after
him arrested his attention.

“Monsieur,” he said, “the courier has arrived.”

“Very well,” said the chevalier, “there is time enough; to-morrow will
do.”

“There are some urgent letters which you would be glad to see, perhaps.”

“Where from?” inquired the chevalier.

“One from England, and the other from Calais; the latter arrived by
express, and seems of great importance.”

“From Calais! Who the deuce can have to write to me from Calais?”

“I think I recognize the handwriting of Monsieur le Comte de Wardes.”

“Oh!” cried the chevalier, forgetting his intention of acting the spy, “in
that case I will come up at once.” This he did, while the two unknown
beings disappeared at the end of the court opposite to the one by which
they had just entered. We shall now follow them, and leave the chevalier
undisturbed to his correspondence. When they had arrived at the grove of
trees, the foremost of the two halted, somewhat out of breath, and,
cautiously raising her hood, said, “Are we still far from the tree?”

“Yes, Madame, more than five hundred paces; but pray rest awhile, you will
not be able to walk much longer at this rate.”

“You are right,” said the princes, for it was she; and she leaned against
a tree. “And now,” she resumed, after having recovered her breath, “tell
me the whole truth, and conceal nothing from me.”

“Oh, Madame,” cried the young girl, “you are already angry with me.”

“No, my dear Athenais, reassure yourself, I am in no way angry with you.
After all, these things do not concern me personally. You are anxious
about what you may have said under the oak; you are afraid of having
offended the king, and I wish to tranquillize you by ascertaining myself
if it were possible you could have been overheard.”

“Oh, yes, Madame, the king was close to us.”

“Still, you were not speaking so loud that some of your remarks may not
have been lost.”

“We thought we were quite alone, Madame.”

“There were three of you, you say?”

“Yes; La Valliere, Montalais, and myself.”

“And you, individually, spoke in a light manner of the king?”

“I am afraid so. Should such be the case, will your highness have the
kindness to make my peace with his majesty?”

“If there should be any occasion for it, I promise you I will do so.
However, as I have already told you, it will be better not to anticipate
evil. The night is now very dark, and the darkness is still greater under
the trees. It is not likely you were recognized by the king. To inform him
of it, by being the first to speak, is to denounce yourself.”

“Oh, Madame, Madame! if Mademoiselle de la Valliere were recognized, I
must have been recognized also. Besides, M. de Saint-Aignan left no doubt
on the subject.”

“Did you, then, say anything very disrespectful of the king?”

“Not at all; it was one of the others who made some very flattering
speeches about the king; and my remarks must have been much in contrast
with hers.”

“Montalais is such a giddy girl,” said Madame.

“It was not Montalais. Montalais said nothing; it was La Valliere.”

Madame started as if she had not known it perfectly well already. “No,
no,” she said, “the king cannot have heard. Besides, we will now try the
experiment for which we came out. Show me the oak. Do you know where it
is?” she continued.

“Alas! Madame, yes.”

“And you can find it again?”

“With my eyes shut.”

“Very well; sit down on the bank where you were, where La Valliere was,
and speak in the same tone and to the same effect as you did before; I
will conceal myself in the thicket, and if I can hear you, I will tell you
so.”

“Yes, Madame.”

“If, therefore, you really spoke loud enough for the king to have heard
you, in that case—”

Athenais seemed to await the conclusion of the sentence with some anxiety.

“In that case,” said Madame, in a suffocated voice, arising doubtless from
her hurried progress, “in that case, I forbid you—” And Madame again
increased her pace. Suddenly, however, she stopped. “An idea occurs to
me,” she said.

“A good idea, no doubt, Madame,” replied Mademoiselle de Tonnay-Charente.

“Montalais must be as much embarrassed as La Valliere and yourself.”

“Less so, for she is less compromised, having said less.”

“That does not matter; she will help you, I dare say, by deviating a
little from the exact truth.”

“Especially if she knows that your highness is kind enough to interest
yourself about me.”

“Very well, I think I have discovered what it is best for you all to
pretend.”

“How delightful.”

“You had better say that all three of you were perfectly well aware that
the king was behind the tree, or behind the thicket, whichever it might
have been; and that you knew M. de Saint-Aignan was there too.”

“Yes, Madame.”

“For you cannot disguise it from yourself, Athenais, Saint-Aignan takes
advantage of some very flattering remarks you made about him.”

“Well, Madame, you see very clearly that one can be overheard,” cried
Athenais, “since M. de Saint-Aignan overheard us.”

Madame bit her lips, for she had thoughtlessly committed herself. “Oh, you
know Saint-Aignan’s character very well,” she said, “the favor the king
shows him almost turns his brain, and he talks at random; not only so, he
very often invents. That is not the question; the fact remains, did or did
not the king overhear?”

“Oh, yes, Madame, he certainly did,” said Athenais, in despair.

“In that case, do what I said: maintain boldly that all three of you knew—mind,
all three of you, for if there is a doubt about any one of you, there will
be a doubt about all,—persist, I say, that you knew that the king
and M. de Saint-Aignan were there, and that you wished to amuse yourself
at the expense of those who were listening.”

“Oh, Madame, at the king’s expense; we shall never dare say that!”

“It is a simple jest; an innocent deception readily permitted in young
girls whom men wish to take by surprise. In this manner everything
explains itself. What Montalais said of Malicorne, a mere jest; what you
said of M. de Saint-Aignan, a mere jest too; and what La Valliere might
have said of—”

“And which she would have given anything to recall.”

“Are you sure of that?”

“Perfectly.”

“Very well, an additional reason. Say the whole affair was a mere joke. M.
de Malicorne will have no occasion to get out of temper; M. de
Saint-Aignan will be completely put out of countenance; he will be
laughed at instead of you; and lastly, the king will be punished for a
curiosity unworthy of his rank. Let people laugh a little at the king in
this affair, and I do not think he will complain of it.”

“Oh, Madame, you are indeed an angel of goodness and sense!”

“It is to my own advantage.”

“In what way?”

“How can you ask me why it is to my advantage to spare my maids of honor
the remarks, annoyances, perhaps even calumnies, that might follow? Alas!
you well know that the court has no indulgence for this sort of
peccadillo. But we have now been walking for some time, shall we be long
before we reach it?”

“About fifty or sixty paces further; turn to the left, Madame, if you
please.”

“And you are sure of Montalais?” said Madame.

“Oh, certainly.”

“Will she do what you ask her?”

“Everything. She will be delighted.”

“And La Valliere—” ventured the princess.

“Ah, there will be some difficulty with her, Madame; she would scorn to
tell a falsehood.”

“Yet, when it is in her interest to do so—”

“I am afraid that that would not make the slightest difference in her
ideas.”

“Yes, yes,” said Madame. “I have been already told that; she is one of
those overnice and affectedly particular people who place heaven in the
foreground in order to conceal themselves behind it. But if she refuses to
tell a falsehood,—as she will expose herself to the jests of the
whole court, as she will have annoyed the king by a confession as
ridiculous as it was immodest,—Mademoiselle la Baume le Blanc de la
Valliere will think it but proper I should send her back again to her
pigeons in the country, in order that, in Touraine yonder, or in Le
Blaisois,—I know not where it may be,—she may at her ease
study sentiment and pastoral life combined.”

These words were uttered with a vehemence and harshness that terrified
Mademoiselle de Tonnay-Charente; and the consequence was, that, as far as
she was concerned, she promised to tell as many falsehoods as might be
necessary. It was in this frame of mind that Madame and her companion
reached the precincts of the royal oak.

“Here we are,” said Tonnay-Charente.

“We shall soon learn if one can overhear,” replied Madame.

“Hush!” whispered the young girl, holding Madame back with a hurried
gesture, entirely forgetful of her companion’s rank. Madame stopped.

“You see that you can hear,” said Athenais.

“How?”

“Listen.”

Madame held her breath; and, in fact, the following words pronounced by a
gentle and melancholy voice, floated towards them:

“I tell you, vicomte, I tell you I love her madly; I tell you I love her
to distraction.”

Madame started at the voice; and, beneath her hood, a bright joyous smile
illumined her features. It was she who now held back her companion, and
with a light step leading her some twenty paces away, that is to say, out
of the reach of the voice, she said, “Remain here, my dear Athenais, and
let no one surprise us. I think it must be you they are conversing about.”

“Me, Madame?”

“Yes, you—or rather your adventure. I will go and listen; if we were
both there, we should be discovered. Or, stay!—go and fetch
Montalais, and then return and wait for me with her at the entrance of the
forest.” And then, as Athenais hesitated, she again said “Go!” in a voice
which did not admit of reply. Athenais thereupon arranged her dress so as
to prevent its rustling being heard; and, by a path beyond the group of
trees, she regained the flower-garden. As for Madame, she concealed
herself in the thicket, leaning her back against a gigantic chestnut-tree,
one of the branches of which had been cut in such a manner as to form a
seat, and waited there, full of anxiety and apprehension. “Now,” she said,
“since one can hear from this place, let us listen to what M. de
Bragelonne and that other madly-in-love fool, the Comte de Guiche, have to
say about me.”

Chapter XLV. In Which Madame Acquires a Proof that Listeners Hear What Is
Said.

There was a moment’s silence, as if the mysterious sounds of night were
hushed to listen, at the same time as Madame, to the youthful passionate
disclosures of De Guiche.

Raoul was about to speak. He leaned indolently against the trunk of the
large oak, and replied in his sweet and musical voice, “Alas, my dear De
Guiche, it is a great misfortune.”

“Yes,” cried the latter, “great indeed.”

“You do not understand me, De Guiche. I say that it is a great misfortune
for you, not merely loving, but not knowing how to conceal your love.”

“What do you mean?” said De Guiche.

“Yes, you do not perceive one thing; namely, that it is no longer to the
only friend you have,—in other words,—to a man who would
rather die than betray you; you do not perceive, I say, that it is no
longer to your only friend that you confide your passion, but to the first
person that approaches you.”

“Are you mad, Bragelonne,” exclaimed De Guiche, “to say such a thing to
me?”

“The fact stands thus, however.”

“Impossible! How, in what manner can I have ever been indiscreet to such
an extent?”

“I mean, that your eyes, your looks, your sighs, proclaim, in spite of
yourself, that exaggerated feeling which leads and hurries a man beyond
his own control. In such a case he ceases to be master of himself; he is a
prey to a mad passion, that makes him confide his grief to the trees, or
to the air, from the very moment he has no longer any living being in
reach of his voice. Besides, remember this: it very rarely happens that
there is not always some one present to hear, especially the very things
which ought not to be heard.” De Guiche uttered a deep sigh. “Nay,”
continued Bragelonne, “you distress me; since your return here, you have a
thousand times, and in a thousand different ways, confessed your love for
her; and yet, had you not said one word, your return alone would have been
a terrible indiscretion. I persist, then, in drawing this conclusion; that
if you do not place a better watch over yourself than you have hitherto
done, one day or other something will happen that will cause an explosion.
Who will save you then? Answer me. Who will save her? for, innocent as she
will be of your affection, your affection will be an accusation against
her in the hands of her enemies.”

“Alas!” murmured De Guiche; and a deep sigh accompanied the exclamation.

“That is not answering me, De Guiche.”

“Yes, yes.”

“Well, what reply have you to make?”

“This, that when the day arrives I shall be no more a living being than I
feel myself now.”

“I do not understand you.”

“So many vicissitudes have worn me out. At present, I am no more a
thinking, acting being; at present, the most worthless of men is better
than I am; my remaining strength is exhausted, my latest-formed
resolutions have vanished, and I abandon myself to my fate. When a man is
out campaigning, as we have been together, and he sets off alone and
unaccompanied for a skirmish, it sometimes happens that he may meet with a
party of five or six foragers, and although alone, he defends himself;
afterwards, five or six others arrive unexpectedly, his anger is aroused
and he persists; but if six, eight, or ten others should still be met
with, he either sets spurs to his horse, if he should still happen to
retain one, or lets himself be slain to save an ignominious flight. Such,
indeed, is my own case: first, I had to struggle against myself;
afterwards, against Buckingham; now, since the king is in the field, I
will not contend against the king, nor even, I wish you to understand,
will the king retire; nor even against the nature of that woman. Still I
do not deceive myself; having devoted myself to the service of such a
love, I will lose my life in it.”

“It is not the lady you ought to reproach,” replied Raoul; “it is
yourself.”

“Why so?”

“You know the princess’s character,—somewhat giddy, easily
captivated by novelty, susceptible to flattery, whether it come from a
blind person or a child, and yet you allow your passion for her to eat
your very life away. Look at her,—love her, if you will,—for
no one whose heart is not engaged elsewhere can see her without loving
her. Yet, while you love her, respect, in the first place, her husband’s
rank, then herself, and lastly, your own safety.”

“Thanks, Raoul.”

“What for?”

“Because, seeing how much I suffer through this woman, you endeavor to
console me, because you tell me all the good of her you think, and perhaps
even that which you do not think.”

“Oh,” said Raoul, “there you are wrong, comte; what I think I do not
always say, but in that case I say nothing; but when I speak, I know not
how to feign or to deceive; and whoever listens to me may believe me.”

During this conversation, Madame, her head stretched forward with eager
ear and dilated glance, endeavoring to penetrate the obscurity, thirstily
drank in the faintest sound of their voices.

“Oh, I know her better than you do, then!” exclaimed Guiche. “She is not
merely giddy, but frivolous; she is not only attracted by novelty, she is
utterly oblivious, and is without faith; she is not simply susceptible to
flattery, she is a practiced and cruel coquette. A thorough coquette! yes,
yes, I am sure of it. Believe me, Bragelonne, I am suffering all the
torments of hell; brave, passionately fond of danger, I meet a danger
greater than my strength and my courage. But, believe me, Raoul, I reserve
for myself a victory which shall cost her floods of tears.”

“A victory,” he asked, “and of what kind?”

“Of what kind, you ask?”

“Yes.”

“One day I will accost her, and will address her thus: ‘I was young—
madly in love, I possessed, however, sufficient respect to throw myself at
your feet, and to prostrate myself in the dust, if your looks had not
raised me to your hand. I fancied I understood your looks, I rose, and
then, without having done anything more towards you than love you yet more
devotedly, if that were possible—you, a woman without heart, faith,
or love, in very wantonness, dashed me down again from sheer caprice. You
are unworthy, princess of the royal blood though you may be, of the love
of a man of honor; I offer my life as a sacrifice for having loved you too
tenderly, and I die despairing you.’”

“Oh!” cried Raoul, terrified at the accents of profound truth which De
Guiche’s words betrayed, “I was right in saying you were mad, Guiche.”

“Yes, yes,” exclaimed De Guiche, following out his own idea; “since there
are no wars here now, I will flee yonder to the north, seek service in the
Empire, where some Hungarian, or Croat, or Turk, will perhaps kindly put
me out of my misery.” De Guiche did not finish, or rather as he finished,
a sound made him start, and at the same moment caused Raoul to leap to his
feet. As for De Guiche, buried in his own thoughts, he remained seated,
with his head tightly pressed between his hands. The branches of the tree
were pushed aside, and a woman, pale and much agitated, appeared before
the two young men. With one hand she held back the branches, which would
have struck her face, and, with the other, she raised the hood of the
mantle which covered her shoulders. By her clear and lustrous glance, by
her lofty carriage, by her haughty attitude, and, more than all that, by
the throbbing of his own heart, De Guiche recognized Madame, and, uttering
a loud cry, he removed his hands from his temple, and covered his eyes
with them. Raoul, trembling and out of countenance, merely muttered a few
words of respect.

“Monsieur de Bragelonne,” said the princess, “have the goodness, I beg, to
see if my attendants are not somewhere yonder, either in the walks or in
the groves; and you, M. de Guiche, remain here: I am tired, and you will
perhaps give me your arm.”

Had a thunderbolt fallen at the feet of the unhappy young man, he would
have been less terrified than by her cold and severe tone. However, as he
himself had just said, he was brave; and as in the depths of his own heart
he had just decisively made up his mind, De Guiche arose, and, observing
Bragelonne’s hesitation, he turned towards him a glance full of
resignation and grateful acknowledgement. Instead of immediately answering
Madame, he even advanced a step towards the vicomte, and holding out the
arm which the princess had just desired him to give her, he pressed his
friend’s hand in his own, with a sigh, in which he seemed to give to
friendship all the life that was left in the depths of his heart. Madame,
who in her pride had never known what it was to wait, now waited until
this mute colloquy was at an end. Her royal hand remained suspended in the
air, and, when Raoul had left, it sank without anger, but not without
emotion, in that of De Guiche. They were alone in the depths of the dark
and silent forest, and nothing could be heard but Raoul’s hastily
retreating footsteps along the obscure paths. Over their heads was
extended the thick and fragrant vault of branches, through the occasional
openings of which the stars could be seen glittering in their beauty.
Madame softly drew De Guiche about a hundred paces away from that
indiscreet tree which had heard, and had allowed so many things to be
heard, during the evening, and, leading him to a neighboring glade, so
that they could see a certain distance around them, she said in a
trembling voice, “I have brought you here, because yonder where you were,
everything can be overheard.”

“Everything can be overheard, did you say, Madame?” replied the young man,
mechanically.

“Yes.”

“Which means—” murmured De Guiche.

“Which means that I have heard every syllable you have said.”

“Oh, Heaven! this only was wanting to destroy me,” stammered De Guiche;
and he bent down his head, like an exhausted swimmer beneath the wave
which engulfs him.

“And so,” she said, “you judge me as you have said?” De Guiche grew pale,
turned his head aside, and was silent. He felt almost on the point of
fainting.

“I do not complain,” continued the princess, in a tone of voice full of
gentleness; “I prefer a frankness that wounds me, to flattery, which would
deceive me. And so, according to your opinion, M. de Guiche, I am a
coquette, an a worthless creature.”

“Worthless,” cried the young man; “you worthless! Oh, no; most certainly I
did not say, I could not have said, that that which was the most precious
object in life for me could be worthless. No, no; I did not say that.”

“A woman who sees a man perish, consumed by the fire she has kindled, and
who does not allay that fire, is, in my opinion, a worthless woman.”

“What can it matter to you what I said?” returned the comte. “What am I
compared to you, and why should you even trouble yourself to know whether
I exist or not?”

“Monsieur de Guiche, both you and I are human beings, and, knowing you as
I do, I do not wish you to risk your life; with you I will change my
conduct and character. I will be, not frank, for I am always so, but
truthful. I implore you, therefore, to love me no more, and to forget
utterly that I have ever addressed a word or a glance towards you.”

De Guiche turned around, bending a look full of passionate devotion upon
her. “You,” he said; “you excuse yourself; you implore me?”

“Certainly; since I have done evil, I ought to repair the evil I have
done. And so, comte, this is what we will agree to. You will forgive my
frivolity and my coquetry. Nay, do not interrupt me. I will forgive you
for having said I was frivolous and a coquette, or something worse,
perhaps; and you will renounce your idea of dying, and will preserve for
your family, for the king, and for our sex, a cavalier whom every one
esteems, and whom many hold dear.” Madame pronounced this last word in
such an accent of frankness, and even of tenderness, that poor De Guiche’s
heart felt almost bursting.

“Oh! Madame, Madame!” he stammered out.

“Nay, listen further,” she continued. “When you shall have renounced all
thought of me forever, from necessity in the first place, and, next,
because you will yield to my entreaty, then you will judge me more
favorably, and I am convinced you will replace this love—forgive the
frivolity of the expression—by a sincere friendship, which you will
be ready to offer me, and which, I promise you, shall be cordially
accepted.”

De Guiche, his forehead bedewed with perspiration, a feeling of death in
his heart, and a trembling agitation through his whole frame, bit his lip,
stamped his foot on the ground, and, in a word, devoured the bitterness of
his grief. “Madame,” he said, “what you offer is impossible, and I cannot
accept such conditions.”

“What!” said Madame, “do you refuse my friendship, then?”

“No, no! I do not need your friendship, Madame. I prefer to die from love,
than to live for friendship.”

“Comte!”

“Oh! Madame,” cried De Guiche, “the present is a moment for me, in which
no other consideration and no other respect exist, than the consideration
and respect of a man of honor towards the woman he worships. Drive me
away, curse me, denounce me, you will be perfectly right. I have uttered
complaints against you, but their bitterness has been owing to my passion
for you; I have said I wish to die, and die I will. If I lived, you would
forget me; but dead, you would never forget me, I am sure.”

Henrietta, who was standing buried in thought, and nearly as agitated as
De Guiche himself, turned aside her head as but a minute before he had
turned aside his. Then, after a moment’s pause, she said, “And you love
me, then, very much?”

“Madly; madly enough to die from it, whether you drive me from you, or
whether you listen to me still.”

“It is a hopeless case,” she said, in a playful manner; “a case which must
be treated with soothing application. Give me your hand. It is as cold as
ice.” De Guiche knelt down, and pressed to his lips, not one, but both of
Madame’s hands.

“Love me, then,” said the princess, “since it cannot be otherwise.” And
almost imperceptibly she pressed his fingers, raising him thus, partly in
the manner of a queen, and partly as a fond and affectionate woman would
have done. De Guiche trembled from head to foot, and Madame, who felt how
passion coursed through every fiber of his being, knew that he indeed
loved truly. “Give me your arm, comte,” she said, “and let us return.”

“Ah! Madame,” said the comte, trembling and bewildered; “you have
discovered a third way of killing me.”

“But, happily, it is the slowest way, is it not?” she replied, as she led
him towards the grove of trees they had so lately quitted.

Chapter XLVI. Aramis’s Correspondence.

When De Guiche’s affairs, which had been suddenly set to right without his
having been able to guess the cause of their improvement, assumed the
unexpected aspect we have seen, Raoul, in obedience to the request of the
princess, had withdrawn in order not to interrupt an explanation, the
results of which he was far from guessing; and he soon after joined the
ladies of honor who were walking about in the flower-gardens. During this
time, the Chevalier de Lorraine, who had returned to his own room, read De
Wardes’s latter with surprise, for it informed him by the hand of his
valet, of the sword-thrust received at Calais, and of all the details of
the adventure, and invited him to inform De Guiche and Monsieur, whatever
there might be in the affair likely to be most disagreeable to both of
them. De Wardes particularly endeavored to prove to the chevalier the
violence of Madame’s affection for Buckingham, and he finished his letter
by declaring that he thought this feeling was returned. The chevalier
shrugged his shoulders at the last paragraph, and, in fact, De Wardes was
out of date, as we have seen. De Wardes was still only at Buckingham’s
affair. The chevalier threw the letter over his shoulder upon an adjoining
table, and said in a disdainful tone, “It is really incredible; and yet
poor De Wardes is not deficient in ability; but the truth is, it is not
very apparent, so easy is it to grow rusty in the country. The deuce take
the simpleton, who ought to have written to me about matters of
importance, and yet he writes such silly stuff as that. If it had not been
for that miserable letter, which has no meaning at all in it, I should
have detected in the grove yonder a charming little intrigue, which would
have compromised a woman, would have perhaps have been as good as a
sword-thrust for a man, and have diverted Monsieur for many days to come.”

He looked at his watch. “It is now too late,” he said. “One o’clock in the
morning; every one must have returned to the king’s apartments, where the
night is to be finished; well, the scent is lost, and unless some
extraordinary chance—” And thus saying, as if to appeal to his good
star, the chevalier, greatly out of temper, approached the window, which
looked out upon a somewhat solitary part of the garden. Immediately, and
as if some evil genius was at his orders, he perceived returning towards
the chateau, accompanied by a man, a silk mantle of a dark color, and
recognized the figure which had struck his attention half an hour
previously.

“Admirable!” he thought, striking his hands together, “this is my
providential mysterious affair.” And he started out precipitately, along
the staircase, hoping to reach the courtyard in time to recognize the
woman in the mantle, and her companion. But as he arrived at the door of
the little court, he nearly knocked against Madame, whose radiant face
seemed full of charming revelations beneath the mantle which protected
without concealing her. Unfortunately, Madame was alone. The chevalier
knew that since he had seen her, not five minutes before, with a
gentleman, the gentleman in question could not be far off. Consequently,
he hardly took time to salute the princess as he drew up to allow her to
pass; then when she had advanced a few steps, with the rapidity of a woman
who fears recognition, and when the chevalier perceived that she was too
much occupied with her own thoughts to trouble herself about him, he
darted into the garden, looked hastily round on every side, and embraced
within his glance as much of the horizon as he possibly could. He was just
in time; the gentleman who had accompanied Madame was still in sight; only
he was hurrying towards one of the wings of the chateau, behind which he
was on the point of disappearing. There was not an instant to lose; the
chevalier darted in pursuit of him, prepared to slacken his pace as he
approached the unknown; but in spite of the diligence he used, the unknown
had disappeared behind the flight of steps before he approached.

It was evident, however, that as the man pursued was walking quietly, in a
pensive manner, with his head bent down, either beneath the weight of
grief or happiness, when once the angle was passed, unless, indeed, he
were to enter by some door or another, the chevalier could not fail to
overtake him. And this, certainly, would have happened, if, at the very
moment he turned the angle, the chevalier had not run against two persons,
who were themselves wheeling in the opposite direction. The chevalier was
ready to seek a quarrel with these two troublesome intruders, when,
looking up, he recognized the superintendent. Fouquet was accompanied by a
person whom the chevalier now saw for the first time. This stranger was
the bishop of Vannes. Checked by the important character of the
individual, and obliged out of politeness to make his own excuses when he
expected to receive them, the chevalier stepped back a few paces; and as
Monsieur Fouquet possessed, if not the friendship, at least the respect of
every one; as the king himself, although he was rather his enemy than his
friend, treated M. Fouquet as a man of great consideration, the chevalier
did what the king himself would have done, namely, he bowed to M. Fouquet,
who returned his salutation with kindly politeness, perceiving that the
gentleman had run against him by mistake and without any intention of
being rude. Then, almost immediately afterwards, having recognized the
Chevalier de Lorraine, he made a few civil remarks, to which the chevalier
was obliged to reply. Brief as the conversation was, De Lorraine saw, with
the most unfeigned displeasure, the figure of his unknown becoming dimmer
in the distance, and fast disappearing in the darkness. The chevalier
resigned himself, and, once resigned, gave his entire attention to
Fouquet:—“You arrive late, monsieur,” he said. “Your absence has
occasioned great surprise, and I heard Monsieur express himself as much
astonished that, having been invited by the king, you had not come.”

“It was impossible for me to do so; but I came as soon as I was free.”

“Is Paris quiet?”

“Perfectly so. Paris has received the last tax very well.”

“Ah! I understand you wished to assure yourself of this good feeling
before you came to participate in our fetes.”

“I have arrived, however, somewhat late to enjoy them. I will ask you,
therefore, to inform me if the king is in the chateau or not, if I am
likely to be able to see him this evening, or if I shall have to wait
until to-morrow.”

“We have lost sight of his majesty during the last half-hour nearly,” said
the chevalier.

“Perhaps he is in Madame’s apartments?” inquired Fouquet.

“Not in Madame’s apartments, I should think, for I just now met Madame as
she was entering by the small staircase; and unless the gentleman whom you
a moment ago encountered was the king himself—” and the chevalier
paused, hoping that, in this manner, he might learn who it was he had been
hurrying after. But Fouquet, whether he had or had not recognized De
Guiche, simply replied, “No, monsieur, it was not the king.”

The chevalier, disappointed in his expectation, saluted them; but as he
did so, casting a parting glance around him, and perceiving M. Colbert in
the center of a group, he said to the superintendent: “Stay, monsieur;
there is some one under the trees yonder, who will be able to inform you
better than myself.”

“Who?” asked Fouquet, whose near-sightedness prevented him from seeing
through the darkness.

“M. Colbert,” returned the chevalier.

“Indeed! That person, then, who is speaking yonder to those men with
torches in their hands, is M. Colbert?”

“M. Colbert himself. He is giving orders personally to the workmen who are
arranging the lamps for the illuminations.”

“Thank you,” said Fouquet, with an inclination of the head, which
indicated that he had obtained all the information he wished. The
chevalier, on his side, having, on the contrary, learned nothing at all,
withdrew with a profound salutation.

He had scarcely left when Fouquet, knitting his brows, fell into a deep
reverie. Aramis looked at him for a moment with a mingled feeling of
compassion and silence.

“What!” he said to him, “the fellow’s name alone seemed to affect you. Is
it possible that, full of triumph and delight as you were just now, the
sight merely of that man is capable of dispiriting you? Tell me, have you
faith in your good star?”

“No,” replied Fouquet, dejectedly.

“Why not?”

“Because I am too full of happiness at this present moment,” he replied,
in a trembling voice. “You, my dear D’Herblay, who are so learned, will
remember the history of a certain tyrant of Samos. What can I throw into
the sea to avert approaching evil? Yes! I repeat it once more, I am too
full of happiness! so happy that I wish for nothing beyond what I have...
I have risen so high... You know my motto: ‘Quo non ascendam?’ I
have risen so high that nothing is left me but to descend from my
elevation. I cannot believe in the progress of a success already more than
human.”

Aramis smiled as he fixed his kind and penetrating glance upon him. “If I
were aware of the cause of your happiness,” he said, “I should probably
fear for your grace; but you regard me in the light of a true friend; I
mean, you turn to me in misfortune, nothing more. Even that is an immense
and precious boon, I know; but the truth is, I have a just right to beg
you to confide in me, from time to time, any fortunate circumstances that
befall you, in which I should rejoice, you know, more than if they had
befallen myself.”

“My dear prelate,” said Fouquet, laughing, “my secrets are of too profane
a character to confide them to a bishop, however great a worldling he may
be.”

“Bah! in confession.”

“Oh! I should blush too much if you were my confessor.” And Fouquet began
to sigh. Aramis again looked at him without further betrayal of his
thoughts than a placid smile.

“Well,” he said, “discretion is a great virtue.”

“Silence,” said Fouquet; “yonder venomous reptile has recognized us, and
is crawling this way.”

“Colbert?”

“Yes; leave me, D’Herblay; I do not wish that fellow to see you with me,
or he will take an aversion to you.”

Aramis pressed his hand, saying, “What need have I of his friendship,
while you are here?”

“Yes, but I may not always be here,” replied Fouquet, dejectedly.

“On that day, then, if that day should ever dawn,” said Aramis,
tranquilly, “we will think over a means of dispensing with the friendship,
or of braving the dislike of M. Colbert. But tell me, my dear Fouquet,
instead of conversing with this reptile, as you did him the honor of
styling him, a conversation the need for which I do not perceive, why do
you not pay a visit, if not to the king, at least to Madame?”

“To Madame,” said the superintendent, his mind occupied by his souvenirs.
“Yes, certainly, to Madame.”

“You remember,” continued Aramis, “that we have been told that Madame
stands high in favor during the last two or three days. It enters into
your policy, and forms part of our plans, that you should assiduously
devote yourself to his majesty’s friends. It is a means of counteracting
the growing influence of M. Colbert. Present yourself, therefore, as soon
as possible to Madame, and, for our sakes, treat this ally with
consideration.”

“But,” said Fouquet, “are you quite sure that it is upon her that the king
has his eyes fixed at the present moment?”

“If the needle has turned, it must be since the morning. You know I have
my police.”

“Very well! I will go there at once, and, at all events, I shall have a
means of introduction in the shape of a magnificent pair of antique cameos
set with diamonds.”

“I have seen them, and nothing could be more costly and regal.”

At this moment they were interrupted by a servant followed by a courier.
“For you, monseigneur,” said the courier aloud, presenting a letter to
Fouquet.

“For your grace,” said the lackey in a low tone, handing Aramis a letter.
And as the lackey carried a torch in his hand, he placed himself between
the superintendent and the bishop of Vannes, so that both of them could
read at the same time. As Fouquet looked at the fine and delicate writing
on the envelope, he started with delight. Those who love, or who are
beloved, will understand his anxiety in the first place, and his happiness
in the next. He hastily tore open the letter, which, however, contained
only these words: “It is but an hour since I quitted you, it is an age
since I told you how much I love you.” And that was all. Madame de
Belliere had, in fact, left Fouquet about an hour previously, after having
passed two days with him; and apprehensive lest his remembrance of her
might be effaced for too long a period from the heart she regretted, she
dispatched a courier to him as the bearer of this important communication.
Fouquet kissed the letter, and rewarded the bearer with a handful of gold.
As for Aramis, he, on his side, was engaged in reading, but with more
coolness and reflection, the following letter:

“The king has this evening been struck with a strange fancy; a woman loves
him. He learned it accidentally, as he was listening to the conversation
of this young girl with her companions; and his majesty has entirely
abandoned himself to his new caprice. The girl’s name is Mademoiselle de
la Valliere, and she is sufficiently pretty to warrant this caprice
becoming a strong attachment. Beware of Mademoiselle de la Valliere.”

There was not a word about Madame. Aramis slowly folded the letter and put
it in his pocket. Fouquet was still delightedly inhaling the perfume of
his epistle.

“Monseigneur,” said Aramis, touching Fouquet’s arm.

“Yes, what is it?” he asked.

“An idea has just occurred to me. Are you acquainted with a young girl of
the name of La Valliere?

“Not at all.”

“Reflect a little.”

“Ah! yes, I believe so; one of Madame’s maids of honor.”

“That must be the one.”

“Well, what then?”

“Well, monseigneur, it is to that young girl that you must pay your visit
this evening.”

“Bah! why so?”

“Nay, more than that, it is to her you must present your cameos.”

“Nonsense.”

“You know, monseigneur, that my advice is not to be regarded lightly.”

“But this is unforeseen—”

“That is my affair. Pay your court in due form, and without loss of time,
to Mademoiselle de la Valliere. I will be your guarantee with Madame de
Belliere that your devotion is altogether politic.”

“What do you mean, my dear D’Herblay, and whose name have you just
pronounced?”

“A name which ought to convince you that, as I am so well informed about
yourself, I may possibly be just as well informed about others. Pay your
court, therefore, to La Valliere.”

“I will pay my court to whomsoever you like,” replied Fouquet, his heart
filled with happiness.

“Come, come, descend again to the earth, traveler in the seventh heaven,”
said Aramis; “M. Colbert is approaching. He has been recruiting while we
were reading; see, how he is surrounded, praised, congratulated; he is
decidedly becoming powerful.” In fact, Colbert was advancing, escorted by
all the courtiers who remained in the gardens, every one of whom
complimented him upon the arrangements of the fete: all of which so
puffed him up that he could hardly contain himself.

“If La Fontaine were here,” said Fouquet, smiling, “what an admirable
opportunity for him to recite his fable of ‘The Frog that wanted to make
itself as big as the Ox.’”

Colbert arrived in the center of the circle blazing with light; Fouquet
awaited his approach, unmoved and with a slightly mocking smile. Colbert
smiled too; he had been observing his enemy during the last quarter of an
hour, and had been approaching him gradually. Colbert’s smile was a
presage of hostility.

“Oh, oh!” said Aramis, in a low tone of voice to the superintendent; “the
scoundrel is going to ask you again for more millions to pay for his
fireworks and his colored lamps.” Colbert was the first to salute them,
and with an air which he endeavored to render respectful. Fouquet hardly
moved his head.

“Well, monseigneur, what do your eyes say? Have we shown our good taste?”

“Perfect taste,” replied Fouquet, without permitting the slightest tone of
raillery to be remarked in his words.

“Oh!” said Colbert, maliciously, “you are treating us with indulgence. We
are poor, we servants of the king, and Fontainebleau is no way to be
compared as a residence with Vaux.”

“Quite true,” replied Fouquet coolly.

“But what can we do, monseigneur?” continued Colbert, “we have done our
best on slender resources.”

Fouquet made a gesture of assent.

“But,” pursued Colbert, “it would be only a proper display of your
magnificence, monseigneur, if you were to offer to his majesty a fete
in your wonderful gardens—in those gardens which have cost you sixty
millions of francs.”

“But do you suppose, monsieur, that his majesty would deign to accept my
invitation?”

“I have no doubt whatever of it,” cried Colbert, hastily; “I will
guarantee that he does.”

“You are exceedingly kind,” said Fouquet. “I may depend on it, then?”

“Yes, monseigneur; yes, certainly.”

“Then I will consider the matter,” yawned Fouquet.

“Accept, accept,” whispered Aramis, eagerly.

“You will consider?” repeated Colbert.

“Yes,” replied Fouquet; “in order to know what day I shall submit my
invitation to the king.”

“This very evening, monseigneur, this very evening.”

“Agreed,” said the superintendent. “Gentlemen, I should wish to issue my
invitations; but you know that wherever the king goes, the king is in his
own palace; it is by his majesty, therefore, that you must be invited.” A
murmur of delight immediately arose. Fouquet bowed and left.

“Proud and dauntless man,” thought Colbert, “you accept, and yet you know
it will cost you ten millions.”

“You have ruined me,” whispered Fouquet, in a low tone, to Aramis.

“I have saved you,” replied the latter, whilst Fouquet ascended the flight
of steps and inquired whether the king was still visible.

Chapter XLVII. The Orderly Clerk.

The king, anxious to be again quite alone, in order to reflect well upon
what was passing in his heart, had withdrawn to his own apartments, where
M. de Saint-Aignan had, after his conversation with Madame, gone to meet
him. This conversation has already been related. The favorite, vain of his
twofold importance, and feeling that he had become, during the last two
hours, the confidant of the king, began to treat the affairs of the court
in a somewhat indifferent manner: and, from the position in which he had
placed himself, or rather, where chance had placed him, he saw nothing but
love and garlands of flowers around him. The king’s love for Madame, that
of Madame for the king, that of Guiche for Madame, that of La Valliere for
the king, that of Malicorne for Montalais, that of Mademoiselle de
Tonnay-Charente for himself, was not all this, truly, more than enough to
turn the head of any courtier? Besides, Saint-Aignan was the model of
courtiers, past, present, and to come; and, moreover, showed himself such
an excellent narrator, and so discerningly appreciative that the king
listened to him with an appearance of great interest, particularly when he
described the excited manner with which Madame had sought for him to
converse about the affair of Mademoiselle de la Valliere. While the king
no longer experienced for Madame any remains of the passion he had once
felt for her, there was, in this same eagerness of Madame to procure
information about him, great gratification for his vanity, from which he
could not free himself. He experienced this pleasure then, but nothing
more, and his heart was not, for a single moment, alarmed at what Madame
might, or might not, think of his adventure. When, however, Saint-Aignan
had finished, the king, while preparing to retire to rest, asked, “Now,
Saint-Aignan, you know what Mademoiselle de la Valliere is, do you not?”

“Not only what she is, but what she will be.”

“What do you mean?”

“I mean that she is everything that woman can wish to be—that is to
say, beloved by your majesty; I mean, that she will be everything your
majesty may wish her to be.”

“That is not what I am asking. I do not wish to know what she is to-day,
or what she will be to-morrow; as you have remarked, that is my affair.
But tell me what others say of her.”

“They say she is well conducted.”

“Oh!” said the king, smiling, “that is mere report.”

“But rare enough, at court, sire, to believe when it is spread.”

“Perhaps you are right. Is she well born?”

“Excellently; the daughter of the Marquis de la Valliere, and
step-daughter of that good M. de Saint-Remy.”

“Ah, yes! my aunt’s major-domo; I remember; and I remember now that I saw
her as I passed through Blois. She was presented to the queens. I have
even to reproach myself that I did not on that occasion pay her the
attention she deserved.”

“Oh, sire! I trust that your majesty will now repair time lost.”

“And the report—you tell me—is, that Mademoiselle de la
Valliere never had a lover.”

“In any case, I do not think your majesty would be much alarmed at the
rivalry.”

“Yet, stay,” said the king, in a very serious tone of voice.

“Your majesty?”

“I remember.”

“Ah!”

“If she has no lover, she has, at least, a betrothed.”

“A betrothed!”

“What! Count, do you not know that?”

“No.”

“You, the man who knows all the news?”

“Your majesty will excuse me. You know this betrothed, then?”

“Assuredly! his father came to ask me to sign the marriage contract: it is—”
The king was about to pronounce the Vicomte de Bragelonne’s name, when he
stopped, and knitted his brows.

“It is—” repeated Saint-Aignan, inquiringly.

“I don’t remember now,” replied Louis XIV., endeavoring to conceal an
annoyance he had some trouble to disguise.

“Can I put your majesty in the way?” inquired the Comte de Saint-Aignan.

“No; for I no longer remember to whom I intended to refer; indeed, I only
remember very indistinctly, that one of the maids of honor was to marry—the
name, however, has escaped me.”

“Was it Mademoiselle de Tonnay-Charente he was going to marry?” inquired
Saint-Aignan.

“Very likely,” said the king.

“In that case, the intended was M. de Montespan; but Mademoiselle de
Tonnay-Charente did not speak of it, it seemed to me, in such a manner as
would frighten suitors away.”

“At all events,” said the king, “I know nothing, or almost nothing, about
Mademoiselle de la Valliere. Saint-Aignan, I rely upon you to procure me
every information about her.”

“Yes, sire, and when shall I have the honor of seeing your majesty again,
to give you the latest news?”

“Whenever you have procured it.”

“I shall obtain it speedily, then, if the information can be as quickly
obtained as my wish to see your majesty again.”

“Well said, count! By the by, has Madame displayed any ill-feeling against
this poor girl?”

“None, sire.”

“Madame did not get angry, then?”

“I do not know; I only know that she laughed continually.”

“That’s well; but I think I hear voices in the ante-rooms—no doubt a
courier has just arrived. Inquire, Saint-Aignan.” The count ran to the
door and exchanged a few words with the usher; he returned to the king,
saying, “Sire, it is M. Fouquet who has this moment arrived, by your
majesty’s orders, he says. He presented himself, but, because of the
lateness of the hour, he does not press for an audience this evening, and
is satisfied to have his presence here formally announced.”

“M. Fouquet! I wrote to him at three o’clock, inviting him to be at
Fontainebleau the following day, and he arrives at Fontainebleau at two
o’clock in the morning! This is, indeed, zeal!” exclaimed the king,
delighted to see himself so promptly obeyed. “On the contrary, M. Fouquet
shall have his audience. I summoned him, and will receive him. Let him be
introduced. As for you, count, pursue your inquiries, and be here
to-morrow.”

The king placed his finger on his lips; and Saint-Aignan, his heart
brimful of happiness, hastily withdrew, telling the usher to introduce M.
Fouquet, who, thereupon, entered the king’s apartment. Louis rose to
receive him.

“Good evening, M. Fouquet,” he said, smiling graciously; “I congratulate
you on your punctuality; and yet my message must have reached you late?”

“At nine in the evening, sire.”

“You have been working very hard lately, M. Fouquet, for I have been
informed that you have not left your rooms at Saint-Mande during the last
three or four days.”

“It is perfectly true, your majesty, that I have kept myself shut up for
the past three days,” replied Fouquet.

“Do you know, M. Fouquet, that I had a great many things to say to you?”
continued the king, with a most gracious air.

“Your majesty overwhelms me, and since you are so graciously disposed
towards me, will you permit me to remind you of the promise made to grant
an audience?”

“Ah, yes! some church dignitary, who thinks he has to thank me for
something, is it not?”

“Precisely so, sire. The hour is, perhaps, badly chosen; but the time of
the companion whom I have brought with me is valuable, and as
Fontainebleau is on the way to his diocese—”

“That is very possible,” said the king, who had signed without reading;
“and he is here?”

“Yes, sire; Vannes is an important diocese; the flock belonging to this
pastor needed his religious consolation; they are savages, whom it is
necessary to polish, at the same time that he instructs them, and M.
d’Herblay is unequalled in such kind of missions.”

“M. d’Herblay!” said the king, musingly, as if his name, heard long since,
was not, however, unknown to him.

“Oh!” said Fouquet, promptly, “your majesty is not acquainted with the
obscure name of one of your most faithful and valuable servants?”

“No, I confess I am not. And so he wishes to set off again?”

“He has this very day received letters which will, perhaps, compel him to
leave, so that, before setting off for that unknown region called
Bretagne, he is desirous of paying his respects to your majesty.”

“Is he waiting?”

“He is here, sire.”

“Let him enter.”

Fouquet made a sign to the usher in attendance, who was waiting behind the
tapestry. The door opened, and Aramis entered. The king allowed him to
finish the compliments which he addressed to him, and fixed a long look
upon a countenance which no one could forget, after having once beheld it.

“Vannes!” he said: “you are bishop of Vannes, I believe?”

“Yes, sire.”

“Vannes is in Bretagne, I think?” Aramis bowed.

“Near the coast?” Aramis again bowed.

“A few leagues from Bell-Isle, is it not?”

“Yes, sire,” replied Aramis; “six leagues, I believe.”

“Six leagues; a mere step, then,” said Louis XIV.

“Not for us poor Bretons, sire,” replied Aramis: “six leagues, on the
contrary, is a great distance, if it be six leagues on land; and an
immense distance, if it be leagues on the sea. Besides, I have the honor
to mention to your majesty that there are six leagues of sea from the
river to Belle-Isle.”

“It is said that M. Fouquet has a very beautiful house there?” inquired
the king.

“Yes, it is said so,” replied Aramis, looking quietly at Fouquet.

“What do you mean by ‘it is said so?’” exclaimed the king.

“He has, sire.”

“Really, M. Fouquet, I must confess that one circumstance surprises me.”

“What may that be, sire?”

“That you should have at the head of the diocese a man like M. d’Herblay,
and yet should not have shown him Belle-Isle.”

“M. de Vannes,” said the king, “I will punish M. Fouquet for his
indifference.”

“In what way, sire?”

“I will change your bishopric.”

Fouquet bit his lips, but Aramis only smiled.

“What income does Vannes bring you in?” continued the king.

“Sixty thousand livres, sire,” said Aramis.

“So trifling an amount as that; but you possess other property, Monsieur
de Vannes?”

“I have nothing else, sire; only M. Fouquet pays me one thousand two
hundred livres a year for his pew in the church.”

“Well, M. d’Herblay, I promise you something better than that.”

“Sire—”

“I will not forget you.”

Aramis bowed, and the king also bowed to him in a respectful manner, as he
was accustomed to do towards women and members of the Church. Aramis
gathered that his audience was at an end; he took his leave of the king in
the simple, unpretending language of a country pastor, and disappeared.

“He is, indeed, a remarkable face,” said the king, following him with his
eyes as long as he could see him, and even to a certain degree when he was
no longer to be seen.

“Sire,” replied Fouquet, “if that bishop had been educated early in life,
no prelate in the kingdom would deserve the highest distinctions better
than he.”

“His learning is not extensive, then?”

“He changed the sword for the crucifix, and that rather late in life. But
it matters little, if your majesty will permit me to speak of M. de Vannes
again on another occasion—”

“I beg you to do so. But before speaking of him, let us speak of yourself,
M. Fouquet.”

“Of me, sire?”

“Yes, I have to pay you a thousand compliments.”

“I cannot express to your majesty the delight with which you overwhelm
me.”

“I understand you, M. Fouquet. I confess, however, to have had certain
prejudices against you.”

“In that case, I was indeed unhappy, sire.”

“But they exist no longer. Did you not perceive—”

“I did, indeed, sire; but I awaited with resignation the day when the
truth would prevail; and it seems that that day has now arrived.”

“Ah! you knew, then, you were in disgrace with me?”

“Alas! sire, I perceived it.”

“And do you know the reason?”

“Perfectly well; your majesty thought that I had been wastefully lavish in
expenditure.”

“Not so; far from that.”

“Or, rather an indifferent administrator. In a word, you thought that, as
the people had no money, there would be none for your majesty either.”

“Yes, I thought so; but I was deceived.”

Fouquet bowed.

“And no disturbances, no complaints?”

“And money enough,” said Fouquet.

“The fact is that you have been profuse with it during the last month.”

“I have more, not only for all your majesty’s requirements, but for all
your caprices.”

“I thank you, Monsieur Fouquet,” replied the king, seriously. “I will not
put you to the proof. For the next two months I do not intend to ask you
for anything.”

“I will avail myself of the interval to amass five or six millions, which
will be serviceable as money in hand in case of war.”

“Five or six millions!”

“For the expenses of your majesty’s household only, be it understood.”

“You think war probable, M. Fouquet?”

“I think that if Heaven has bestowed on the eagle a beak and claws, it is
to enable him to show his royal character.”

The king blushed with pleasure.

“We have spent a great deal of money these few days past, Monsieur
Fouquet; will you not scold me for it?”

“Sire, your majesty has still twenty years of youth to enjoy, and a
thousand million francs to lavish in those twenty years.”

“That is a great deal of money, M. Fouquet,” said the king.

“I will economize, sire. Besides, your majesty as two valuable servants in
M. Colbert and myself. The one will encourage you to be prodigal with your
treasures—and this shall be myself, if my services should continue
to be agreeable to your majesty; and the other will economize money for
you, and this will be M. Colbert’s province.”

“M. Colbert?” returned the king, astonished.

“Certainly, sire; M. Colbert is an excellent accountant.”

At this commendation, bestowed by the traduced on the traducer, the king
felt himself penetrated with confidence and admiration. There was not,
moreover, either in Fouquet’s voice or look, anything which injuriously
affected a single syllable of the remark he had made; he did not pass one
eulogium, as it were, in order to acquire the right of making two
reproaches. The king comprehended him, and yielding to so much generosity
and address, he said, “You praise M. Colbert, then?”

“Yes, sire, I praise him; for, besides being a man of merit, I believe him
to be devoted to your majesty’s interests.”

“Is that because he has often interfered with your own views?” said the
king, smiling.

“Exactly, sire.”

“Explain yourself.”

“It is simple enough. I am the man who is needed to make the money come
in; he is the man who is needed to prevent it leaving.”

“Nay, nay, monsieur le surintendant, you will presently say something
which will correct this good opinion.”

“Do you mean as far as administrative abilities are concerned, sire?”

“Yes.”

“Not in the slightest.”

“Really?”

“Upon my honor, sire, I do not know throughout France a better clerk than
M. Colbert.”

This word “clerk” did not possess, in 1661, the somewhat subservient
signification attached to it in the present day; but, as spoken by
Fouquet, whom the king had addressed as the superintendent, it seemed to
acquire an insignificant and petty character, that at this juncture served
admirably to restore Fouquet to his place, and Colbert to his own.

“And yet,” said Louis XIV., “it was Colbert, however, that,
notwithstanding his economy, had the arrangement of my fetes here
at Fontainebleau; and I assure you, Monsieur Fouquet, that in no way has
he checked the expenditure of money.” Fouquet bowed, but did not reply.

“Is it not your opinion too?” said the king.

“I think, sire,” he replied, “that M. Colbert has done what he had to do
in an exceedingly orderly manner, and that he deserves, in this respect,
all the praise your majesty may bestow upon him.”

The word “orderly” was a proper accompaniment for the word “clerk.” The
king possessed that extreme sensitiveness of organization, that delicacy
of perception, which pierced through and detected the regular order of
feelings and sensations, before the actual sensations themselves, and he
therefore comprehended that the clerk had, in Fouquet’s opinion, been too
full of method and order in his arrangements; in other words, that the
magnificent fetes of Fontainebleau might have been rendered more
magnificent still. The king consequently felt that there was something in
the amusements he had provided with which some person or another might be
able to find fault; he experienced a little of the annoyance felt by a
person coming from the provinces to Paris, dressed out in the very best
clothes which his wardrobe can furnish, only to find that the fashionably
dressed man there looks at him either too much or not enough. This part of
the conversation, which Fouquet had carried on with so much moderation,
yet with extreme tact, inspired the king with the highest esteem for the
character of the man and the capacity of the minister. Fouquet took his
leave at a quarter to three in the morning, and the king went to bed a
little uneasy and confused at the indirect lesson he had received; and a
good hour was employed by him in going over again in memory the
embroideries, the tapestries, the bills of fare of the various banquets,
the architecture of the triumphal arches, the arrangements for the
illuminations and fireworks, all the offspring of the “Clerk Colbert’s”
invention. The result was, the king passed in review before him everything
that had taken place during the last eight days, and decided that faults
could be found in his fetes. But Fouquet, by his politeness, his
thoughtful consideration, and his generosity, had injured Colbert more
deeply than the latter, by his artifice, his ill-will, and his persevering
hatred, had ever yet succeeded in hurting Fouquet.

Chapter XLVIII. Fontainebleau at Two o’Clock in the Morning.

As we have seen, Saint-Aignan had quitted the king’s apartment at the very
moment the superintendent entered it. Saint-Aignan was charged with a
mission that required dispatch, and he was going to do his utmost to turn
his time to the best advantage. He whom we have introduced as the king’s
friend was indeed an uncommon personage; he was one of those valuable
courtiers whose vigilance and acuteness of perception threw all other
favorites into the shade, and counterbalanced, by his close attention, the
servility of Dangeau, who was not the favorite, but the toady of the king.
M. de Saint-Aignan began to think what was to be done in the present
position of affairs. He reflected that his first information ought to come
from De Guiche. He therefore set out in search of him, but De Guiche, whom
we saw disappear behind one of the wings, and who seemed to have returned
to his own apartments, had not entered the chateau. Saint-Aignan therefore
went in quest of him, and after having turned, and twisted, and searched
in every direction, he perceived something like a human form leaning
against a tree. This figure was as motionless as a statue, and seemed
deeply engaged in looking at a window, although its curtains were closely
drawn. As this window happened to be Madame’s, Saint-Aignan concluded that
the form in question must be that of De Guiche. He advanced cautiously,
and found he was not mistaken. De Guiche had, after his conversation with
Madame, carried away such a weight of happiness, that all of his strength
of mind was hardly sufficient to enable him to support it. On his side,
Saint-Aignan knew that De Guiche had had something to do with La
Valliere’s introduction to Madame’s household, for a courtier knows
everything and forgets nothing; but he had never learned under what title
or conditions De Guiche had conferred his protection upon La Valliere.
But, as in asking a great many questions it is singular if a man does not
learn something, Saint-Aignan reckoned upon learning much or little, as
the case might be, if he questioned De Guiche with that extreme tact, and,
at the same time, with that persistence in attaining an object, of which
he was capable. Saint-Aignan’s plan was as follows: If the information
obtained was satisfactory, he would inform the king, with alacrity, that
he had lighted upon a pearl, and claim the privilege of setting the pearl
in question in the royal crown. If the information were unsatisfactory,—which,
after all, might be possible,—he would examine how far the king
cared about La Valliere, and make use of his information in such a manner
as to get rid of the girl altogether, and thereby obtain all the merit of
her banishment with all the ladies of the court who might have the least
pretensions to the king’s heart, beginning with Madame and finishing with
the queen. In case the king should show himself obstinate in his fancy,
then he would not produce the damaging information he had obtained, but
would let La Valliere know that this damaging information was carefully
preserved in a secret drawer of her confidant’s memory. In this manner, he
would be able to air his generosity before the poor girl’s eyes, and so
keep her in constant suspense between gratitude and apprehension, to such
an extent as to make her a friend at court, interested, as an accomplice,
in trying to make his fortune, while she was making her own. As far as
concerned the day when the bombshell of the past should burst, if ever
there were any occasion, Saint-Aignan promised himself that he would by
that time have taken all possible precautions, and would pretend an entire
ignorance of the matter to the king; while, with regard to La Valliere, he
would still have an opportunity of being considered the personification of
generosity. It was with such ideas as these, which the fire of
covetousness had caused to dawn in half an hour, that Saint-Aignan, the
son of earth, as La Fontaine would have said, determined to get De Guiche
into conversation: in other words, to trouble him in his happiness—a
happiness of which Saint-Aignan was quite ignorant. It was long past one
o’clock in the morning when Saint-Aignan perceived De Guiche, standing,
motionless, leaning against the trunk of a tree, with his eyes fastened
upon the lighted window,—the sleepiest hour of night-time, which
painters crown with myrtles and budding poppies, the hour when eyes are
heavy, hearts throb, and heads feel dull and languid—an hour which
casts upon the day which has passed away a look of regret, while
addressing a loving greeting to the dawning light. For De Guiche it was
the dawn of unutterable happiness; he would have bestowed a treasure upon
a beggar, had one stood before him, to secure him uninterrupted indulgence
in his dreams. It was precisely at this hour that Saint-Aignan, badly
advised,—selfishness always counsels badly,—came and struck
him on the shoulder, at the very moment he was murmuring a word, or rather
a name.

“Ah!” he cried loudly, “I was looking for you.”

“For me?” said De Guiche, starting.

“Yes; and I find you seemingly moon-struck. Is it likely, my dear comte,
you have been attacked by a poetical malady, and are making verses?”

The young man forced a smile upon his lips, while a thousand conflicting
sensations were muttering defiance of Saint-Aignan in the deep recesses of
his heart. “Perhaps,” he said. “But by what happy chance—”

“Ah! your remark shows that you did not hear what I said.”

“How so?”

“Why, I began by telling you I was looking for you.”

“You were looking for me?”

“Yes: and I find you now in the very act.”

“Of doing what, I should like to know?”

“Of singing the praises of Phyllis.”

“Well, I do not deny it,” said De Guiche, laughing. “Yes, my dear comte, I
was celebrating Phyllis’s praises.”

“And you have acquired the right to do so.”

“I?”

“You; no doubt of it. You; the intrepid protector of every beautiful and
clever woman.”

“In the name of goodness, what story have you got hold of now?”

“Acknowledged truths, I am well aware. But stay a moment; I am in love.”

“You?”

“Yes.”

“So much the better, my dear comte; tell me all about it.” And De Guiche,
afraid that Saint-Aignan might perhaps presently observe the window, where
the light was still burning, took the comte’s arm and endeavored to lead
him away.

“Oh!” said the latter, resisting, “do not take me towards those dark
woods, it is too damp there. Let us stay in the moonlight.” And while he
yielded to the pressure of De Guiche’s arm, he remained in the
flower-garden adjoining the chateau.

“Well,” said De Guiche, resigning himself, “lead me where you like, and
ask me what you please.”

“It is impossible to be more agreeable than you are.” And then, after a
moment’s silence, Saint-Aignan continued, “I wish you to tell me something
about a certain person in who you have interested yourself.”

“And with whom you are in love?”

“I will neither admit nor deny it. You understand that a man does not very
readily place his heart where there is no hope of return, and that it is
most essential he should take measures of security in advance.”

“You are right,” said De Guiche with a sigh; “a man’s heart is a very
precious gift.”

“Mine particularly is very tender, and in that light I present it to you.”

“Oh! you are well known, comte. Well?”

“It is simply a question of Mademoiselle de Tonnay-Charente.”

“Why, my dear Saint-Aignan, you are losing your senses, I should think.”

“Why so?”

“I have never shown or taken any interest in Mademoiselle de
Tonnay-Charente.”

“Bah!”

“Never.”

“Did you not obtain admission for Mademoiselle de Tonnay-Charente into
Madame’s household?”

“Mademoiselle de Tonnay-Charente—and you ought to know it better
than any one else, my dear comte—is of a sufficiently good family to
make her presence here desirable, and her admittance very easy.”

“You are jesting.”

“No; and upon my honor I do not know what you mean.”

“And you had nothing, then, to do with her admission?”

“No.”

“You do not know her?”

“I saw her for the first time the day she was presented to Madame.
Therefore, as I have never taken any interest in her, as I do not know
her, I am not able to give you the information you require.” And De Guiche
made a movement as though he were about to leave his questioner.

“Why, really, it seems to me that it is now time to return to our
apartments.”

“And yet you were not going in when I—did not meet, but found you.”

“Therefore, my dear comte,” said De Guiche, “as long as you have anything
to say to me, I place myself entirely at your service.”

“And you are quite right in doing so. What matters half an hour more or
less? Will you swear that you have no injurious communications to make to
me about her, and that any injurious communications you might possibly
have to make are not the cause of your silence?”

“Oh! I believe the poor child to be as pure as crystal.”

“You overwhelm me with joy. And yet I do not wish to have towards you the
appearance of a man so badly informed as I seem. It is quite certain that
you supplied the princess’s household with the ladies of honor. Nay, a
song has even been written about it.”

“Oh! songs are written about everything.”

“Do you know it?”

“No: sing it to me and I shall make its acquaintance.”

“I cannot tell you how it begins; I only remember how it ends.”

“Very well, at all events, that is something.”

“When Maids of Honor happen to run short, Lo!—Guiche will furnish
the entire Court.”

“The idea is weak, and the rhyme poor,” said De Guiche.

“What can you expect, my dear fellow? it is not Racine’s or Moliere’s, but
La Feuillade’s; and a great lord cannot rhyme like a beggarly poet.”

“It is very unfortunate, though, that you only remember the termination.”

“Stay, stay, I have just recollected the beginning of the second couplet.”

“Why, there’s the birdcage, with a pretty pair, The charming Montalais,
and...”

“Montalais and La Valliere, these, then, are the two young girls in whom
you interest yourself,” said Saint-Aignan, laughing.

“And so Mademoiselle de Tonnay-Charente’s name is not to be met with in
the song?”

“No, indeed.”

“And are you satisfied, then?”

“Perfectly; but I find Montalais there,” said Saint-Aignan, still
laughing.

“Oh! you will find her everywhere. She is a singularly active young lady.”

“You know her?”

“Indirectly. She was the protegee of a man named Malicorne, who is
a protegee of Manicamp’s; Manicamp asked me to get the situation of
maid of honor for Montalais in Madame’s household, and a situation for
Malicorne as an officer in Monsieur’s household. Well, I asked for the
appointments, for you know very well that I have a weakness for that droll
fellow Manicamp.”

“And you obtained what you sought?”

“For Montalais, yes; for Malicorne, yes and no; for as yet he is only on
trial. Do you wish to know anything else?”

“The last word of the couplet still remains, La Valliere,” said
Saint-Aignan, resuming the smile that so tormented Guiche.

“Well,” said the latter, “it is true that I obtained admission for her in
Madame’s household.”

“Ah!” said Saint-Aignan.

“But,” continued Guiche, assuming a great coldness of manner, “you will
oblige me, comte, not to jest about that name. Mademoiselle la Baume le
Blanc de la Valliere is a young lady perfectly well-conducted.”

“Perfectly well-conducted do you say?”

“Yes.”

“Then you have not heard the last rumor?” exclaimed Saint-Aignan.

“No, and you will do me a service, my dear comte, in keeping this report
to yourself and to those who circulate it.”

“Ah! bah! you take the matter up very seriously.”

“Yes; Mademoiselle de Valliere is beloved by one of my best friends.”

Saint-Aignan started. “Aha!” he said.

“Yes, comte,” continued Guiche; “and consequently, you, the most
distinguished man in France for polished courtesy of manner, will
understand that I cannot allow my friend to be placed in a ridiculous
position.”

Saint-Aignan began to bite his nails, partially from vexation, and
partially from disappointed curiosity. Guiche made him a very profound
bow.

“You send me away,” said Saint-Aignan, who was dying to know the name of
the friend.

“I do not send you away, my dear fellow. I am going to finish my lines to
Phyllis.”

“And those lines—”

“Are a quatrain. You understand, I trust, that a quatrain is
a serious affair?”

“Of course.”

“And as, of these four lines, of which it is composed, I have yet three
and a half to make, I need my undivided attention.”

“I quite understand. Adieu! comte. By the by—”

“What?”

“Are you quick at making verses?”

“Wonderfully so.”

“Will you have quite finished the three lines and a half to-morrow
morning?”

“I hope so.”

“Adieu, then, until to-morrow.”

“Adieu, adieu!”

Saint-Aignan was obliged to accept the notice to quit; he accordingly did
so, and disappeared behind the hedge. Their conversation had led Guiche
and Saint-Aignan a good distance from the chateau.

Every mathematician, every poet, and every dreamer has his own subjects of
interest. Saint-Aignan, on leaving Guiche, found himself at the extremity
of the grove,—at the very spot where the outbuildings of the
servants begin, and where, behind the thickets of acacias and
chestnut-trees interlacing their branches, which were hidden by masses of
clematis and young vines, the wall which separated the woods from the
courtyard was erected. Saint-Aignan, alone, took the path which led
towards these buildings; De Guiche going off in the opposite direction.
The one proceeded to the flower-garden, while the other bent his steps
towards the walls. Saint-Aignan walked on between rows of mountain-ash,
lilac, and hawthorn, which formed an almost impenetrable roof above his
head; his feet were buried in the soft gravel and thick moss. He was
deliberating a means of taking his revenge, which seemed difficult for him
to carry out, and was vexed with himself for not having learned more about
La Valliere, notwithstanding the ingenious measures he had resorted to in
order to acquire more information about her, when suddenly the murmur of a
human voice attracted his attention. He heard whispers, the complaining
tones of a woman’s voice mingled with entreaties, smothered laughter,
sighs, and half-stilted exclamations of surprise; but above them all, the
woman’s voice prevailed. Saint-Aignan stopped to look about him; he
perceived from the greatest surprise that the voices proceeded, not from
the ground, but from the branches of the trees. As he glided along under
the covered walk, he raised his head, and observed at the top of the wall
a woman perched upon a ladder, in eager conversation with a man seated on
a branch of a chestnut-tree, whose head alone could be seen, the rest of
his body being concealed in the thick covert of the chestnut. 5

Chapter XLIX. The Labyrinth.

Saint-Aignan, who had only been seeking for information, had met with an
adventure. This was indeed a piece of good luck. Curious to learn why, and
particularly what about, this man and woman were conversing at such an
hour, and in such a singular position, Saint-Aignan made himself as small
as he possibly could, and approached almost under the rounds of the
ladder. And taking measures to make himself as comfortable as possible, he
leaned his back against a tree and listened, and heard the following
conversation. The woman was the first to speak.

“Really, Monsieur Manicamp,” she said, in a voice which, notwithstanding
the reproaches she addressed to him, preserved a marked tone of coquetry,
“really your indiscretion is of a very dangerous character. We cannot talk
long in this manner without being observed.”

“That is very probable,” said the man, in the calmest and coolest of
tones.

“In that case, then, what would people say? Oh! if any one were to see me,
I declare I should die of very shame.”

“Oh! that would be very silly; I do not believe you would.”

“It might have been different if there had been anything between us; but
to injure myself gratuitously is really very foolish of me; so, adieu,
Monsieur Manicamp.”

“So far so good; I know the man, and now let me see who the woman is,”
said Saint-Aignan, watching the rounds of the ladder, on which were
standing two pretty little feet covered with blue satin shoes.

“Nay, nay, for pity’s sake, my dear Montalais,” cried Manicamp, “deuce
take it, do not go away; I have a great many things to say to you, of the
greatest importance, still.”

“Montalais,” said Saint-Aignan to himself, “one of the three. Each of the
three gossips had her adventure, only I imagined the hero of this one’s
adventure was Malicorne and not Manicamp.”

At her companion’s appeal, Montalais stopped in the middle of her descent,
and Saint-Aignan could observe the unfortunate Manicamp climb from one
branch of the chestnut-tree to another, either to improve his situation or
to overcome the fatigue consequent upon his inconvenient position.

“Of course. But why did you write me a letter stimulating my gratitude
towards you? Why did you ask me for an interview at such an hour and in
such a place as this?”

“I stimulated your gratitude in reminding you that it was I who had been
the means of your becoming attached to Madame’s household; because most
anxiously desirous of obtaining the interview you have been kind enough to
grant me, I employed the means which appeared to me most certain to insure
it. And my reason for soliciting it, at such an hour and in such a
locality, was, that the hour seemed to me to be the most prudent, and the
locality the least open to observation. Moreover, I had occasion to speak
to you upon certain subjects which require both prudence and solitude.”

“Monsieur Manicamp!”

“But everything I wish to say is perfectly honorable, I assure you.”

“I think, Monsieur Manicamp, it will be more becoming in me to take my
leave.”

“No, no!—listen to me, or I will jump from my perch here to yours;
and be careful how you set me at defiance, for a branch of this
chestnut-tree causes me a good deal of annoyance, and may provoke me to
extreme measures. Do not follow the example of this branch, then, but
listen to me.”

“I am listening, and I agree to do so; but be as brief as possible, for if
you have a branch of the chestnut-tree which annoys you, I wish you to
understand that one of the rounds of the ladder is hurting the soles of my
feet, and my shoes are being cut through.”

“Do me the kindness to give me your hand.”

“Why?”

“Will you have the goodness to do so?”

“There is my hand, then; but what are you going to do?”

“To draw you towards me.”

“What for? You surely do not wish me to join you in the tree?”

“No; but I wish you to sit down upon the wall; there, that will do; there
is quite room enough, and I would give a great deal to be allowed to sit
down beside you.”

“No, no; you are very well where you are; we should be seen.”

“Do you really think so?” said Manicamp, in an insinuating voice.

“I am sure of it.”

“Very well, I remain in my tree, then, although I cannot be worse placed.”

“Monsieur Manicamp, we are wandering away from the subject.”

“You are right, we are so.”

“You wrote me a letter?”

“I did.”

“Why did you write?”

“Fancy, at two o’clock to-day, De Guiche left.”

“What then?”

“Seeing him set off, I followed him, as I usually do.”

“Of course, I see that, since you are here now.”

“Don’t be in a hurry. You are aware, I suppose, that De Guiche is up to
his very neck in disgrace?”

“Alas! yes.”

“It was the very height of imprudence on his part, then, to come to
Fontainebleau to seek those who had at Paris sent him away into exile, and
particularly those from whom he had been separated.”

“Monsieur Manicamp, you reason like Pythagoras.”

“Moreover, De Guiche is as obstinate as a man in love can be, and he
refused to listen to any of my remonstrances. I begged, I implored him,
but he would not listen to anything. Oh, the deuce!”

“What’s the matter?”

“I beg your pardon, Mademoiselle Montalais, but this confounded branch,
about which I have already had the honor of speaking to you, has just torn
a certain portion of my dress.”

“De Guiche set off on horseback as hard as he could, I following him, at a
slower pace. You quite understand that to throw one’s self into the water,
for instance, with a friend, at the same headlong rate as he himself would
do it, would be the act either of a fool or a madman. I therefore allowed
De Guiche to get in advance, and I proceeded on my way with a commendable
slowness of pace, feeling quite sure that my unfortunate friend would not
be received, or, if he had been, that he would ride off again at the very
first cross, disagreeable answer; and that I should see him returning much
faster than he went, without having, myself, gone much farther than Ris or
Melun—and that even was a good distance you will admit, for it is
eleven leagues to get there and as many to return.”

Montalais shrugged her shoulders.

“Laugh as much as you like; but if, instead of being comfortably seated on
the top of the wall as you are, you were sitting on this branch as if you
were on horseback, you would, like Augustus, aspire to descend.”

“Be patient, my dear M. Manicamp; a few minutes will soon pass away; you
were saying, I think, that you had gone beyond Ris and Melun.”

“Yes, I went through Ris and Melun, and I continued to go on, more and
more surprised that I did not see him returning; and here I am at
Fontainebleau; I look for and inquire after De Guiche everywhere, but no
one has seen him, no one in the town has spoken to him; he arrived riding
at full gallop, he entered the chateau; and there he has disappeared. I
have been here at Fontainebleau since eight o’clock this evening inquiring
for De Guiche in every direction, but no De Guiche can be found. I am
dying with uneasiness. You understand that I have not been running my head
into the lion’s den, in entering the chateau, as my imprudent friend has
done; I came at once to the servants’ offices, and I succeeded in getting
a letter conveyed to you; and now, for Heaven’s sake, my dear young lady,
relieve me from my anxiety.”

“There will be no difficulty in that, my dear M. Manicamp; your friend De
Guiche has been admirably received.”

“Bah!”

“The king made quite a fuss over him.”

“The king, who exiled him!”

“Madame smiled upon him, and Monsieur appears to like him better than
ever.”

“Ah! ah!” said Manicamp, “that explains to me, then, why and how he has
remained. And did he not say anything about me?”

“Not a word.”

“That is very unkind. What is he doing now?”

“In all probability he is asleep, or, if not asleep, dreaming.”

“And what have they been doing all the evening?”

“Dancing.”

“The famous ballet? How did De Guiche look?”

“Superb!”

“Dear fellow! And now, pray forgive me, Mademoiselle Montalais; but all I
now have to do is pass from where I now am to your apartment.”

“What do you mean?”

“I cannot suppose that the door of the chateau will be opened for me at
this hour; and as for spending the night upon this branch, I possibly
might not object to do so, but I declare it is impossible for any other
animal than a boa-constrictor to do it.”

“But, M. Manicamp, I cannot introduce a man over the wall in that manner.”

“Two, if you please,” said a second voice, but in so timid a tone that it
seemed as if its owner felt the utter impropriety of such a request.

“Good gracious!” exclaimed Montalais, “who is that speaking to me?”

“Malicorne, Mademoiselle Montalais.”

And as Malicorne spoke, he raised himself from the ground to the lowest
branches, and thence to the height of the wall.

“Monsieur Malicorne! why, you are both mad!”

“How do you do, Mademoiselle Montalais?” inquired Malicorne.

“I needed but this!” said Montalais, in despair.

“Oh! Mademoiselle Montalais,” murmured Malicorne; “do not be so severe, I
beseech you.”

“In fact,” said Manicamp, “we are your friends, and you cannot possibly
wish your friends to lose their lives; and to leave us to pass the night
on these branches is in fact condemning us to death.”

“Oh!” said Montalais, “Monsieur Malicorne is so robust that a night passed
in the open air with the beautiful stars above him will not do him any
harm, and it will be a just punishment for the trick he has played me.”

“Be it so, then; let Malicorne arrange matters with you in the best way he
can; I pass over,” said Manicamp. And bending down the famous branch
against which he had directed such bitter complaints, he succeeded, by the
assistance of his hands and feet, in seating himself side by side with
Montalais, who tried to push him back, while he endeavored to maintain his
position, and, moreover, he succeeded. Having taken possession of the
ladder, he stepped on it, and then gallantly offered his hand to his fair
antagonist. While this was going on, Malicorne had installed himself in
the chestnut-tree, in the very place Manicamp had just left, determining
within himself to succeed him in the one he now occupied. Manicamp and
Montalais descended a few rounds of the ladder, Manicamp insisting, and
Montalais laughing and objecting.

Suddenly Malicorne’s voice was heard in tones of entreaty:

“I entreat you, Mademoiselle Montalais, not to leave me here. My position
is very insecure, and some accident will be certain to befall me, if I
attempt unaided to reach the other side of the wall; it does not matter if
Manicamp tears his clothes, for he can make use of M. de Guiche’s
wardrobe; but I shall not be able to use even those belonging to M.
Manicamp, for they will be torn.”

“My opinion,” said Manicamp, without taking any notice of Malicorne’s
lamentations, “is that the best thing to be done is to go and look for De
Guiche without delay, for, by and by, perhaps, I may not be able to get to
his apartments.”

Malicorne sighed. Manicamp went away a few paces, but returning to the
foot of the ladder, he said, “By the by, how do I get to M. de Guiche’s
apartments?”

“Nothing easier. You go along by the hedge until you reach a place where
the paths cross.”

“Yes.”

“You will see four paths.”

“Exactly.”

“One of which you will take.”

“Which of them?”

“That to the right.”

“That to the right?”

“No, to the left.”

“The deuce!”

“No, no, wait a minute—”

“You do not seem to be quite sure. Think again, I beg.”

“You take the middle path.”

“But there are four.”

“So there are. All I know is, that one of the four paths leads straight to
Madame’s apartments; and that one I am well acquainted with.”

“But M. de Guiche is not in Madame’s apartments, I suppose?”

“No, indeed.”

“Well, then the path which leads to Madame’s apartments is of no use to
me, and I would willingly exchange it for the one that leads to where M.
de Guiche is lodging.”

“Of course, and I know that as well; but as for indicating it from where
we are, it is quite impossible.”

“Well, let us suppose that I have succeeded in finding that fortunate
path.”

“In that case, you are almost there, for you have nothing else to do but
cross the labyrinth.”

“Nothing more than that? The deuce! so there is a labyrinth as
well.”

“Yes, and complicated enough too; even in daylight one may sometimes be
deceived,—there are turnings and windings without end: in the first
place, you must turn three times to the right, then twice to the left,
then turn once—stay, is it once or twice, though? at all events,
when you get clear of the labyrinth, you will see an avenue of sycamores,
and this avenue leads straight to the pavilion in which M. de Guiche is
lodging.”

“Nothing could be more clearly indicated,” said Manicamp; “and I have not
the slightest doubt in the world that if I were to follow your directions,
I should lose my way immediately. I have, therefore, a slight service to
ask of you.”

“What may that be?”

“That you will offer me your arm and guide me yourself, like another—
like another—I used to know mythology, but other important matters
have made me forget it; pray come with me, then?”

“And am I to be abandoned, then?” cried Malicorne.

“It is quite impossible, monsieur,” said Montalais to Manicamp; “if I were
to be seen with you at such an hour, what would be said of me?”

“Your own conscience would acquit you,” said Manicamp, sententiously.

“Impossible, monsieur, impossible.”

“In that case, let me assist Malicorne to get down; he is a very
intelligent fellow, and possesses a very keen scent; he will guide me, and
if we lose ourselves, both of us will be lost, and the one will save the
other. If we are together, and should be met by any one, we shall look as
if we had some matter of business in hand; whilst alone I should have the
appearance either of a lover or a robber. Come, Malicorne, here is the
ladder.”

Malicorne had already stretched out one of his legs towards the top of the
wall, when Manicamp said, in a whisper, “Hush!”

“What’s the matter?” inquired Montalais.

“I hear footsteps.”

“Good heavens!”

In fact the fancied footsteps soon became a reality; the foliage was
pushed aside, and Saint-Aignan appeared, with a smile on his lips, and his
hand stretched out towards them, taking every one by surprise; that is to
say, Malicorne upon the tree with his head stretched out, Montalais upon
the round of the ladder and clinging to it tightly, and Manicamp on the
ground with his foot advanced ready to set off. “Good-evening, Manicamp,”
said the comte, “I am glad to see you, my dear fellow; we missed you this
evening, and a good many inquiries have been made about you. Mademoiselle
de Montalais, your most obedient servant.”

Montalais blushed. “Good heavens!” she exclaimed, hiding her face in both
her hands.

“Pray reassure yourself; I know how perfectly innocent you are, and I
shall give a good account of you. Manicamp, do you follow me: the hedge,
the cross-paths, and labyrinth, I am well acquainted with them all; I will
be your Ariadne. There now, your mythological name is found at last.”

“Perfectly true, comte.”

“And take M. Malicorne away with you at the same time,” said Montalais.

“No, indeed,” said Malicorne; “M. Manicamp has conversed with you as long
as he liked, and now it is my turn, if you please; I have a multitude of
things to tell you about our future prospects.”

“You hear,” said the comte, laughing; “stay with him, Mademoiselle
Montalais. This is, indeed, a night for secrets.” And, taking Manicamp’s
arm, the comte led him rapidly away in the direction of the road Montalais
knew so well, and indicated so badly. Montalais followed them with her
eyes as long as she could perceive them.

Chapter L: How Malicorne Had Been Turned Out of the Hotel of the Beau
Paon.

While Montalais was engaged in looking after the comte and Manicamp,
Malicorne had taken advantage of the young girl’s attention being drawn
away to render his position somewhat more tolerable, and when she turned
round, she immediately noticed the change which had taken place; for he
had seated himself, like a monkey, upon the wall, the foliage of the wild
vine and honeysuckle curled around his head like a faun, while the twisted
ivy branches represented tolerably enough his cloven feet. Montalais
required nothing to make her resemblance to a dryad as complete as
possible. “Well,” she said, ascending another round of the ladder, “are
you resolved to render me unhappy? have you not persecuted me enough,
tyrant that you are?”

“I a tyrant?” said Malicorne.

“Yes, you are always compromising me, Monsieur Malicorne; you are a
perfect monster of wickedness.”

“I?”

“What have you to do with Fontainebleau? Is not Orleans your place of
residence?”

“Do you ask me what I have to do here? I wanted to see you.”

“Ah, great need of that.”

“Not as far as concerns yourself, perhaps, but as far as I am concerned,
Mademoiselle Montalais, you know very well that I have left my home, and
that, for the future, I have no other place of residence than that which
you may happen to have. As you, therefore, are staying at Fontainebleau at
the present moment, I have come to Fontainebleau.”

Montalais shrugged her shoulders. “You wished to see me, did you not?” she
said.

“Of course.”

“Very well, you have seen me,—you are satisfied; so now go away.”

“Oh, no,” said Malicorne; “I came to talk with you as well as to see you.”

“Very well, we will talk by and by, and in another place than this.”

“By and by! Heaven only knows if I shall meet you by and by in another
place. We shall never find a more favorable one than this.”

“But I cannot this evening, nor at the present moment.”

“Why not?”

“Because a thousand things have happened to-night.”

“Well, then, my affair will make a thousand and one.”

“No, no; Mademoiselle de Tonnay-Charente is waiting for me in our room to
communicate something of the very greatest importance.”

“How long has she been waiting?”

“For an hour at least.”

“In that case,” said Malicorne, tranquilly, “she can wait a few minutes
longer.”

“Monsieur Malicorne,” said Montalais, “you are forgetting yourself.”

“You should rather say that it is you who are forgetting me, and that I am
getting impatient at the part you make me play here indeed! For the last
week I have been prowling about among the company, and you have not once
deigned to notice my presence.”

“Have you been prowling about here for a week, M. Malicorne?”

“Like a wolf; sometimes I have been burnt by the fireworks, which have
singed two of my wigs; at others, I have been completely drenched in the
osiers by the evening damps, or the spray from the fountains,—half-famished,
fatigued to death,